


V-Day

by StarSpangled (Senforza)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Amortentia, Bucky Barnes is a Literal Cat, Clint Barton is a Little Shit, Fluff and Humor, Fortune Telling, Friends to Lovers, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutually Unrequited, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Reading Tea Leaves, Spells & Enchantments, Swearing, Tarot, Tony Stark Is Not Helping, Valentine's Day, a gratuitous amount of swearing as bucky actively mourns his life choices, adding tags as I go, and also one hundred percent done with everything, idiots trying to navigate a romantically themed day without revealing their crushes on each other, maybe? you tell me if i'm funny, palmistry, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 56,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senforza/pseuds/StarSpangled
Summary: Lately (and okay, yes, Clint, ‘lately’ is entirely subjective and in this case means something like ‘since fourth year’), Bucky’s noticed that he’s been a little...interested in his best friend. It had been exhausting for a while, sure, but by the end of sixth year it was just a normal part of his life. The sky is blue. Water is wet. His friends are assholes. His stomach swoops sometimes when Steve does something innocuous. Just another day in the life.Except this particular day in the life is Valentine’s Day, which means the professors want to give their poor dying graduating class a break from hyperventilating over NEWTs. And God’s a fucking sadist, which means the professors are giving them a ‘break’ by ‘taking things easy’ and giving all the seventh years lessons on ‘romantically-themed course material.’(Hiatus until StuckyAUBang is over)





	1. Breakfast

The first thing Bucky Barnes thinks when he opens his eyes on February 14th in his seventh year at Hogwarts is ‘oh hell.’

The second thing he thinks is ‘oh _fucking_ hell.’

It becomes evident within seconds that he’s said both thoughts out loud, because Clint gives him a distinctly amused look from where he’s wrangling on his robes. It takes a moment for Bucky to register that the asshole’s digging through _his_ trunk from where it’s stashed under the bed, and in his frantic scramble to get out from under the blankets he ends up rolling straight out of his position on the top bunk with a shout and a series of muffled expletives. The fucking bastard’s _howling_ now, and Bucky has the distinctly un-Hufflepuff urge to rip his bunkmate’s head off and send it to Natasha in a gift-wrapped box.

“Bad day?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Barton.” Bucky pulls himself gingerly from the twisted snarl of blankets before launching himself at Clint. “And give me back my goddamn cologne! Jesus Christ, how are _you_ the one with a girlfriend?” Clint darts back, but Bucky has the advantage of being half-asleep and therefore having extremely clouded judgement and no self-preservation instinct. Some of the other Hufflepuff seventh years give them the side-eye as he knocks Clint clear into the nightstand, but most of them are used to this by now. “It’s a miracle Nat stands you, can’t even be bothered to take care of your own stink...”

“Aw, don’t be so bitter. I’m sure it won’t be that bad.” Clint claws himself back up and ruffles Bucky’s hair, snickering as it sweeps right over his murderous eyes like a curtain. “It’s just Valentine’s Day, after all.”

Bucky tries for a threatening growl, but it comes out as more of a defeated groan.

“The most romantic holiday of the year...”

“Ugh.”

“...All the hearts and roses...”

“Clint.”

“...And people making out in the Great Hall...”

“ _Barton._ ”

“...And enchanted cupids, and singing valentines...”

“Oh, God.” Bucky throws himself melodramatically onto the bottom bunk; Clint calmly smooths the corner of his sheets down and goes back to marinating in a cloud of Bucky’s cologne, thank you very much. “Singing valentines. Singing valentine _howlers._ ” He puts an arm over his eyes.

The sadistic fuck’s giggling now. “That’s right, Barnes. Singing valentine howlers. During the entire day. Throughout all our classes.” Clint sprays the bottle into the air another couple times just to piss him off before tossing it at him; Bucky catches it automatically before letting it drop onto the mattress, not moving from his position of abject despair. “Our _romantically-themed_ classes. With all our pals. Including Steve _._ ”

Bucky shifts his arm, cracks a single eye open. “Is it too late to skip?”

“Suck it up, soldier.” Clint yanks Bucky’s robes from where they’re dangling from his bunk, throwing it into his chest with the force of a beater’s arm. “And hurry. If the bacon’s gone by the time we get there, I swear to God I’ll bring Nat back to our room tonight.”

 

* * *

 

There’s something of an unspoken tradition for the Hogwarts seventh years on Valentine’s Day, and it’s a development that Bucky’s successfully avoided thinking about for the past six years of his magical education.

For the most part, the professors of Hogwarts are strict, no-nonsense witches and wizards who in equal parts command the respect of and scare the _shit_ out of their students. While a few of them make time in their curriculum for special classes around major holidays like Christmas, and Halloween always has special significance in the magical world, they usually adapt a practical approach to their schedules and keep their lessons separate from the festivities around them. They _definitely_ try to avoid encouraging the hormone-driven antics of their students with a ten foot pole. Sure, Bucky knows on a distant, abstract level that they have personal (and therefore potentially _romantic_ ) lives of their own. And yes, he knows that love (familial, platonic, and yes, _romantic_ ) can play a part in magic. He just really does _not_ need to hear about anything related to any of that from his wise, old, pruny professors. Purity of academics or whatever.

Mostly, he just doesn’t wanna have to hear about love and romance while sitting right next to Steve Rogers in all his classes.

Lately (and okay, yes, Clint, ‘lately’ is entirely subjective and in this case means something like ‘since fourth year’), Bucky’s noticed that he’s been a little... _interested_ in his friend. ‘Interested’, in and of itself, is not unusual for a friendship. If you want to get technical, Bucky’s been ‘interested’ in Steve since before Hogwarts, back when they were next door neighbors finishing each other’s fights on the playground. He’d looked out for him back then against the big, bad high schoolers who said mean things to Bucky’s sisters; he’d kept doing so when they’d got their matching letters to Hogwarts, kept doing so when Steve finally hit his growth spurt in sixth year, and he continued doing so now whenever anyone so much as thought ‘mudblood’ within Steve’s presence. ‘Interest’ was harmless, pretty standard. Heck, _most_ of their mutual friends had a special interest in him, keeping eyes on Steve to make sure the reckless idiot didn’t get himself into trouble. Bucky had seriously considered making a watch schedule, back before Steve finally hit his late growth spurt and they could be reasonably certain he wouldn’t get himself seriously maimed with any of his regular altercations.

However, ‘interested’ and ‘ _interested_ ’ are two different things. Bucky learned this the hard way in fourth year, when he hit puberty and realized he was thinking about Steve the way most of his roommates were starting to think about the people they’d been dating...and he keeps learning it the hard way, every time he fights beside him and patches him up and strolls around Hogsmeade with him and banters with him from the opposite side of the quidditch field, keeps learning it when they catch eyes across the breakfast table and laugh at an unspoken inside joke, and he keeps learning it and learning it and learning it. It had been exhausting for a while, sure, but by the end of sixth year it was just a normal part of his life. The sky is blue. Water is wet. His friends are assholes. His stomach swoops sometimes when Steve does something innocuous. Just another day in the life.

Except _this_ particular day in the life is Valentine’s Day, which means the professors want to give their poor dying graduating class a break from hyperventilating over NEWTs. And God’s a fucking _sadist_ , which means the professors are giving them a ‘break’ by ‘taking things easy’ and giving all the seventh years lessons on ‘ _romantically-themed course material.’_

And okay, yes. Under different circumstances, Bucky would rather spend transfiguration class animating statues of cherubs to sing inappropriate pop music than spend another goddamn second reading about the scientific limits of conjuration (he’d also rather drive his wand through his skull, but that’s neither here nor there). It’d be worth it just to see the look on Professor McGonagall’s face, honestly. The problem is that his _interest_ in Steve is a constant white noise in the back of his head, a perpetual part of his environment, and it _stays_ that way because he never has any reason to think about or consider romance or love or dating whenever he’s in his friend’s immediate vicinity. It’s pretty simple. As long as Steve stays in this corner of his mind and romantically inclined thoughts stay in _this_ corner of his mind, everything’s going to be fine and Bucky won’t start stressing himself out about things that don’t need to be worried about, what with NEWTs coming up and the Auror application process to prepare for. As long as he can be reasonably confident that romance is not gonna play any role in either of their lives anytime soon, he can keep admiring that crooked smile without anything getting weird.

Except today’s Valentine’s Day, and he’s sat next to Steve in every class since first year, so he’s been Steve’s partner in every class since first year, so he’s gonna be Steve’s partner in class _today on Valentine’s Day in seventh year_ , where they’re gonna have to sit through almost five straight hours of love-related talk or spells or...whatever. And go over said love-related talk-or-spells-or-whatever together. He is going to have to talk about them _with Steve._ And then those two very happily separate corners of his mind are going to have to get together, and make him think about love and romance with Steve, and being romantically _involved_ with Steve and hearing Steve _talk about his own opinions on love and his love life._

This is Bucky’s nightmare. This is the day he dies.

 

* * *

 

Luckily for Bucky and what remains of his innocence, the bacon is not in fact completely gone when he and Clint make it to the Great Hall. At this point, house tables don’t exist beyond the start-of-year feast; instead, Bucky spies Tony waving them over from the far table with the rest of their friends. Clint abandons him at the end of the row so he can sit next to Natasha, while Bucky nudges himself unceremoniously between Steve and Sam on the other side. He grins lazily as Sam complains, swiping a piece of toast from Steve’s plate and biting into it cheekily as Steve fixes him with a disapproving glare.

As he tucks into his stolen food, he does a quick head count.

All four Gryffindors are present and accounted for; he’s wedged comfortably between two of them, who are now complaining about him over his head. Rude. Thor seems occupied with housing as many doughnuts as humanly possible while waxing poetic about some muggle girl back home to...no one. Meanwhile, Rhodey is preoccupied with two of the three Ravenclaws. Tony is in the middle of insisting that yes, Pepper, he has definitely not planned some embarrassing display of affection for her and no, what are you talking about, he’s not looking a little too excited for the mail, _what are you talking about._

“Where’s Bruce?” He spits out the words around the last mouthful of toast, taking Steve’s fork and spearing it through one of the sausages on the plate in front of him.

“You have your own utensils, you know!”

“Hiding out in the Ravenclaw common room until breakfast ends.” At least Sam still loves him. “I’m not supposed to tell Pepper this, but this morning’s post might—”

“Say no more.” He fixes Clint with a deadpan stare until he finally looks over from Natasha, then mouths the words exaggeratedly so they get the message. _Singing howler._

Natasha smirks, holding her hand out, and Loki sighs before dropping a handful of sickles into her palm. Steve twitches like he wants to tell off the Slytherins for betting on their friends, but Bucky elbows him and he sighs instead. It’s not like Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes had swept the pot for Natasha and Clint’s relationship pool or anything, after all. Perish the thought.

“Now that everyone who’s coming to breakfast is here—glad you two made it, Clint, Bucky—”

“Tony.” Pepper is nervously casting her gaze upward every few seconds. “Tony, this conversation is _not over!_ ”

Tony smiles, pats her hand, and very pointedly does not respond. “—I’m taking bets on how long we get before McGonagall blows a fuse in Transfiguration. Personally, I’m feeling ten minutes.”

“What makes you think that?” Steve crosses his arms, frowning mildly; Bucky shuffles automatically to make space for his elbows.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Rogers.” Tony points at him with his fork. “V-Day-2018? We’re seventh years?” He leans forward to stab said fork through the very mini-quiche Bucky just stole from Steve; Bucky squawks indignantly. “She does her best, bless her, but McGonagall always ends up getting sick of the shenanigans and reverting back to normal lesson plans.”

“Oh, you of little faith. I bet she secretly enjoys it...up to a point.” Clint rummages a little before slapping down a galleon. “She’ll get through the class this year. She’s made of stronger stuff.”

“Mm.” Bucky waves his hand to catch their attention, making meaningless noises around the one (1) entire muffin in his mouth. He drops his own loose change on the table, then holds up three fingers.

“What?”

“He’s putting his money on thirty minutes, Tony.” Steve gives a long-suffering sigh, reluctantly turning out his pockets. “And I’m putting it on an hour.”

Sam shakes his head. “C’mon, man. What happened to house solidarity?” He coughs up his own money. “I’m with Clint. I _believe_ in her.”

Bucky snorts. Sam elbows him hard.

Natasha draws back from Clint a little, squinting at Tony for a second. “I don’t trust this. You’re planning something.”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. It fools no one. “What, me? I would _never._ ”

She stares for another few seconds before shaking her head. “Stark’s gonna do something stupid at ten minutes so he can win the bet. Pass.”

Fuck, of course he is. Bucky goes frantically to retrieve his money, but Tony sweeps his wand in a fluid motion and it’s in his hand, the slippery bastard. Rhodey groans.

“Any other takers? Anyone?”

Pepper glares, Rhodey shakes his head. Thor is still oblivious to the world. Loki’s busy insisting that he’s above this when the sudden swooshing of wings indicates the arrival of the morning post.

Pepper’s eyes snap immediately to the ceiling, so she’s the first to see it; she winces, standing up quickly, mouth opening to make some excuse, but Tony grabs her arm without even turning and yanks her back down. Rhodey, who is single and therefore free to leave, beats a swift retreat. Natasha just smirks, pulling out two pairs of earplugs and passing one to Clint as Sam and Steve tense.

Bucky’s desperately grabbing for the disappearing breakfast bacon when he realizes what’s about to happen, but by then the red envelope’s already smoldering in front of Pepper’s horrified stare.

“Oh no.” His eyes widen as the envelope begins to shake; Pepper’s got her lips pursed so hard they’re white, her arms are crossed, and she’s refusing to touch it. He reels back. “Oh no, no, no—”

Steve sighs, putting his hands over Bucky’s ears as the letter explodes. Even then, the muffled, dulcet tones of Tony Stark’s screeching pound at his skull.

**_“WE’RE NO STRANGERS TO LOVE...YOU KNOW THE RULES, AND SO DO I_** **_—_ ** **_”_ **

Somehow, Pepper’s screaming is even louder.

“ANTHONY EDWARD STARK, I AM GOING TO MURDER YOU!”

By the time the howler’s finished singing and Pepper’s turned Tony’s hair into multi-colored cornrows (the points deducted and added to Ravenclaw for the respective public disturbance and charmwork cancel each other out), the breakfast food is gone and everyone’s getting ready to go to class. Steve lets out the breath he’s been holding, uncovering Bucky’s ears and standing. He adjust the straps on his bag for a few seconds before turning, all bright blue eyes and blinding smiles.

“Ready for potions, Buck?”

Potions class, first period. This, at least, is an easy one. Valentine’s Day and NEWT-level potions class can only mean one thing, and that’s amortentia. He can do this.

Unless he’s going to be standing in the dimly lit dungeons over the warm glow of a dozen small fires, making amortentia with Steve that probably will smell exactly _like_ Steve—

Who’s he kidding. He can’t do this.

“V-Day-2018.” Bucky sighs, downing the last of his bacon before falling into step with Steve. As he cracks his knuckles, he resists the urge to cuff some sense back into his own head. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will i finish fics
> 
> disclaimer i haven't written anything since like...god, it's been fucking ages, so sorry if this is shitty but i'm also running on like no sleep and also do not have a beta bc i'm an impatient motherfucker and also don't know anyone in this fandom. also if i get any characterizations wrong...that's why. because my knowledge of the marvel universe is literally maybe three or four movies? i don't know why i'm here i just ship stucky and am always all about ensemble shenanigans (no matter how much i DON'T KNOW THE ENSEMBLE someone stop me)
> 
> also just assume bucky and steve have the same classes i know it's usually sorted by houses but i'm bending the universe to my will to make idiocy happen
> 
> bucky and steve's schedule for the fic: potions class, charms class, defense against the dark arts, divination, then astronomy at night. i've got things at least partially planned out. >:)
> 
> it's not a coincidence that v-day is both valentine's day and victory day ok
> 
> reviews/kudos always appreciated


	2. Potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Steve chokes. Clint kicks him in the shin. Bucky feels his soul actively desert his body and attempt ritual suicide."

There’s a jar in the dungeon where they hold potions, sitting innocuously at eye-level on the shelf of preserved animal parts. It’s got the head of something that looks disturbingly like an anteater, wide-eyed with its tongue out, frozen for all eternity in a murky grey sludge that reminds Bucky of the time Tony tried to turn his pumpkin juice into whiskey in second year. Whatever it is, its nose is starting to peel away from its face. It stares out on the students of Hogwarts day after day with cold, dead eyes. Bucky’s pretty sure there’s an equally dead maggot crawling out of its left ear. It is, without a doubt, the most traumatizing thing in the entire classroom.

That festering animal head has gotten Bucky through most of his potions classes for the last two and a half years

Y’see, Bucky has this thing down to a science by now. If he’s ever making a potion with Steve and the fumes start getting to his head and fabricating thoughts about how nice Steve looks this close, he just has to look at the moldy head and the rest of the room disappears in a wash of disgust and mild horror. If the golden light of the fire ever brings out the color in Steve’s eyes just right, he just has to shift his head a little to the left and bam—instead of gazing into those baby blues, he's staring into the cross-eyed leer of a magical monster head with open sores. Did Steve brush against him as he went for the cauldron, impossibly warm through two sets of robes in a boiling dungeon? Is Steve laughing, murmuring to him quietly in a low, teasing tone that sinks down to his bones? Did Steve grab his hand, shifting it so the silver knife is in the right position to de-sting the Billywig carcass? All Bucky has to do is take a deep breath, find the decomposing skull on the other side of the room, and let himself sink slowly into the abyss.

Today, the shrunken head is covered by a festive red tarp with glowing hearts on it.

Bucky wonders if it's too late to drop this class.

* * *

 “I’m not ready for this,” Steve grumbles under his breath as they enter the dungeon and get slapped in the face with the faint fumes of amortentia. Bucky snorts because _honestly, relatable_. “I thought I was ready, but screw it. I’m turning around and leaving this class right now, immediately.”

That’s the one thing Bucky has going for him, Steve’s general discomfort-slash-ambivalence toward romantic gestures and overtures. He nearly goes to sling his arm amicably around Steve’s shoulders before remembering that they’re wider now, meaning he’s liable to accidentally punch someone in the head if he tries. He settles for smirking and raising an eyebrow as he sits at their usual seat, smoothing down his robes.

“M’kay, so turn around and walk out right now, Stevie. I _dare_ you.”

Steve gives him a familiar look, torn between sitting down like the law-abiding citizen he usually is and the siren call of rising to literally every stupid challenge thrown his way. In the time it takes for him to take on a vaguely constipated expression, Slughorn emerges from some dark corner looking far too enthusiastic for what’s probably going to be a unique kind of slow torture. Bucky coughs out a particularly unsubtle ‘knew it’ as Steve takes his seat, rolling his eyes. Steve elbows him back (and dammit, it _hurts_ now, Steve, know your goddamn strength) and settles for scrawling ‘jerk’ in slanting handwriting on Bucky’s textbook.

“A- _hem!_ ” Students quiet down a bit more slowly than usual, in turns excited and resigned for what’s going to be an _interesting_ period. “Good morning, class.”

As seventh years, they respond in unison with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Steve mumbles the appropriate words as Bucky opts to mouth ' _save me from this hell’_. From across the table, Clint snorts back a laugh.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, we’re going to be covering love potions and their effects today.” Professor Slughorn waves his hands behind him at a singular cauldron. “Now, who can tell me what this is?”

It’s amortentia, obviously, but no one moves a muscle because they’re a class of goddamn seventh years and they’re not _stupid_ , they know the follow-up question. Clint finally rolls his eyes and shoves his hand in the air.

“Amortentia, sir.”

“But you all already knew that, didn’t you?” Slughorn’s beady eyes twinkle brightly. “As a brief refresher, amortentia is considered the most powerful love potion in existence; it creates a powerful, obsessive infatuation in the drinker towards the individual the potion is attuned to. It can be recognized by its spiraling steam, the sheen it carries, and its distinctive smell.” Those eyes scan the classroom, now very clearly shining with suppressed laughter, and there’s suddenly no doubt in Bucky’s mind—the professor _knows_ that there are at least five unattached students in the room who are currently deeply, shamefully uncomfortable.

Bucky, who has been actively dreading this day for the past week, has come to class prepared because he does his goddamn homework. Slughorn’s eyes pause on him briefly and he sits up straight, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge, _ask me the question, old man_ , because he’s got his answer prepared. He’s going to look the professor right in the bald spot, lie through his teeth, and tell him that the amortentia smells like his mother’s hair and his sister’s peach pie and _not_ Steve Rogers’ bar soap or infirmary antiseptic or charcoal pencils.

Bucky is also the unluckiest son of a bitch in the goddamn universe, because what he _isn’t_ prepared for is the moment when Slughorn’s eyes slide right past him to Steve fucking Rogers, who’s currently trying very hard to reverse time and go back to being five foot nothing. “Mr. Rogers, for example. What do you smell?”

Steve chokes. Clint kicks him in the shin. Bucky feels his soul actively desert his body and attempt ritual suicide.

“Um.” Steve is very clearly unprepared for the question, because Steve never _thinks_ before doing anything, and Bucky tries very hard to stare at the spot where the disgusting shrunken head usually is but he can’t help but keep his ears open. His eyes slide over to Steve against his will, and Steve glances at him with a look that Bucky is pretty sure means _‘bail me out, Buck’_ , but of course the one time Steve asks for help is the one time Bucky cannot help him under any circumstance (on pain of death, ever). Steve’s eyes dart around the room before he slumps and takes in a reluctant breath; his shoulders suddenly relax as he smiles, relieved. “It’s hard to say, sir. I can’t smell much over the cologne Barton’s wearing.”

The class lets out a collective breath of relieved laughter. Bucky stretches out his legs and chuckles himself, the tension leaving him slowly; not the impossible pipe dream answer, of course, but not the worst case scenario either. If anything, it’s not an answer at all. Clint catches his eye and begins mouthing a sequence of frantic words and waving hand motions as he points at Bucky, then himself, and Bucky tilts his head in confusion.

“Well then, Mr. Barton.” Clint reluctantly turns away, giving him one last significant look. “Perhaps you can tell us what _you_ smell?”

“My girlfriend, sir,” he responds easily, and Bucky claps a comforting hand discreetly on Steve’s shoulder as Slughorn moves on to safer topics. Steve meets him with a tired look, tilting his head at the clock wearily, and Bucky smiles wryly in return _._

They can do this. How hard can it be to survive another hour?

* * *

 

Really fucking hard, as it turns out.

“Geez.” Steve returns from the shelf with a set of scales in hand, putting a hand briefly on Bucky’s bicep to stop him before he tips the contents of his mortar into the cauldron, and it’s not like they don’t touch each other on a regular basis but fuck if he can’t feel every single finger searing a brand into his arm. “You’d think, after seven years, you’d know what a ‘fine powder’ means.”

“It means I’m not letting you break the goddamn mortar this time,” Bucky murmurs back with a smirk, taking up the pestle and rolling his eyes very hard at Steve as he starts mashing at the pearls again. “You ground right through the stone of the last one, in case you’ve forgotten—although of _course_ you’ve forgotten, didn’t even bother buying another one. I had to order it  _for_ you.”

“Didn’t _ask_ you to, you jerk.” Steve’s piling on weights opposite lavender sprigs, but he stops to shoot Bucky his ‘I-won’t-say-thanks-but-thanks’ smile. Bucky waves his hand in a dismissive and equally unspoken 'don't-mention-it', feeling his lips curl upward despite himself as he turns back to his mortar.

“Yeah, yeah. Point is, I’m not buying you a third, so don’t even _think_ about touching it. Just tell me when it’s up to your standards.” He shakes the powder towards Steve mockingly, pulling a face, before going back to the methodical grinding motion and muttering under his breath. “‘Fine powder,’ my ass. Gets worked up halfway through class, doesn’t even notice he’s pushing right through the stone. Don’t know your own strength, you goddamn punk.”

“I thought you _liked_ the growth spurt,” Steve retorts, voice low, and it’s probably just because the classroom’s dimly lit and heavy with smoke and everyone else is whispering too but that pitch is doing unfair things to Bucky’s head. And the smirk he’s wearing now, Jesus, it is _not_ fair. “Or are you telling me you miss dragging me kicking and screaming from every blood supremacist in the school?”

“You got me. Highlight of my day, tucking you under my armpit and carrying you away from your own stupid.” He snorts. “At least it was easier to do, back when I could just throw you over my shoulder like some asshole princess.” And then he blinks, freezing, because _where the fuck did that come from._

Steve’s not helping. “Yeah, yeah, my knight in shining armor over here. I can take care of myself, you jerk, I always could,” and he’s still talking, but Bucky’s not listening anymore because his brain’s started making high-pitched noises after that first sentence and his eyes are going to that fucking tarp and he’s hoping for _anything_ to take him out of this moment but it’s _not happening._

Y’see, there are a few things Bucky can usually count on to happen in Potions class. There’s the shrunken head, of course; and yes, that’s been shot to hell, but usually there are at least three more constants up Bucky’s sleeve that help keep him sane.

Firstly, there’s the simple fact that Thor is in his class. Bucky’s been friends with the guy for seven years, and he’s still not entirely convinced that he isn’t just a particularly friendly half-giant the Odinsons plucked off a stray mountain (and sure, technically that’s _Loki’s_ story, but given the differences in their builds it’s not hard to believe they might’ve swapped the names). The man doesn’t speak so much as produce constant streams of quotable grand declarations; if things are getting bad, Bucky just has to pick out Thor’s voice from the tail end of the classroom. Their entire friend group has gotten somewhat used to tuning Thor out, but if things are going south (in an ‘if-I-open-my-mouth-I’m-going-to-say-something-blatantly-unplatonic’ way), Bucky just has to alter his attention like a radio frequency and latch onto Thor solemnly honoring an ashwinder egg’s soul into Valhalla or cursing a sopophorus bean to an eternity of torment or, on one particularly memorable occasion, cheerfully informing Clint that he had just accidentally set Slughorn on fire.

Some higher power’s got it out for Bucky today, however, because apparently _today_ of all days is the second Wednesday of the month, which means the moment breakfast ended Thor had crammed his last two slices of toast whole into his mouth before dragging his brother up to the staff table to check in about the international exchange program. Bucky’s not entirely sure about the logistics, but from what he can gather the Scandinavian wizarding school system begins at age seven rather than eleven and ends with higher education akin to muggle universities in the twenties (which _ew, why_ ), and the two had attended some academy run by their father for a while before transferring to Hogwarts’ first year class. Frankly, he doesn’t really care; a lot has changed since the whole Voldemort thing, to the point where a good chunk of the regular full-time students aren’t just British anymore anyway (for fuck’s sake, his own friend group probably covers every mainland region of the United States). What he _does_ care about is the fact that Thor’s gallivanting around the Headmaster’s office with Durmstrang’s Maximoff twins and therefore isn’t in class today, which means there’s no way he can unwittingly rescue Bucky from his own mistakes. He briefly considers asking Clint to keep an eye out instead, until he realizes Clint is a sadistic motherfucker who actively enjoys witnessing his emotional turmoil and will probably keep an eye out regardless (and a magical recording device so he can narrate play-by-play later in their room to boot). He’d ask Sam and Rhodey if the two weren’t somewhat good students who actually cared about things like _effort_ and _grades_ and _paying attention in class, Barnes, I don’t have time for your middle-school bullshit_. Friends are useless, Bucky decides right then and there, suspended blissfully in that mortifying moment he will probably look back on as the second his entire life became a downward spiral. If he survives this, he’s barricading himself in the Room of Requirement and living off rainwater and shame for the rest of his natural born life.

Secondly, there’s Steve himself, which seems counter-intuitive on paper but is honestly just a testimony to the sheer amount of favors the karmic balance of the universe owes Bucky for his years-on-years of suffering and unrequited pining. Because there have been _moments_ , he sometimes lets himself think — times when their eyes met or their hands touched or Bucky put the wooden spoon into Steve’s outstretched palm before he opened his mouth to ask for it or stupid shit like that, where he could’ve sworn that Steve was honest to God _blushing_ bright enough to see even in the darkness of the dungeon. His traitorous mind (which sounds eerily like Tony) likes to throw up the one time fifth year they’d been pressed shoulder to shoulder by the shelves, practically on top of each other trying to see if the lionfish spines were in that narrow corner, and they’d had to put their heads so close together to see into the gap that Bucky could count Steve’s freckles. He’d glanced over and for a goddamn second he could’ve sworn that Steve was looking at _him_ , running a few degrees warmer than usual, staring transfixed with his mouth half-open (and _Christ_ , Barnes, do _not_ think about that mouth). Bucky had done a double take, glanced over again, bitten his tongue so he didn't make some incriminating noise, and nearly had an aneurysm right then and there in the Hogwarts dungeon...right before Steve snatched the bottle out of the corner, fled back to their desk, and spent the rest of class being as loud, snarky, and blatantly platonic as humanly possible. They’re not put in those situations particularly often, but every time something happens that could possibly trick Bucky’s stupid mind into thinking his friend might actually reciprocate his feelings, he can count on Steve Rogers and his sassy ass to deflect and drive home just how _not romantic_ their relationship is for the remainder of the day. Given the invariability of the pattern, he’d be half-convinced that Steve somehow knew about his crush, if he didn’t spend his time very actively _not_ thinking about said crush in general (and wow, there’s a terrifying thought, Steve knowing about it, this is probably why he doesn’t think about it).

The problem is that some combination of circumstances—Valentine’s Day, obviously, probably combined with Slughorn putting him on the spot and the fact that the smell when they first entered the dungeon likely gave half the room boners—seems to have thrown Steve off his game today, because he’s been red-faced since class began. Sure, things have been relatively comfortable so far, but today happens to be _V-Day, 2018._ It’s only a matter of time before something terrible and charged happens, and then Bucky is  _fucked._

Naturally, that something terrible decides to happen _right that second_ , when Steve finally deems the powdered pearl fine (‘y’know, a ‘fine’ powder and just ‘fine’ in general—’ ‘you’re a riot, Rogers—’) and grabs the spoon so they can mix it in. Steve stirs the potion slowly as Bucky leans over to tip the dust in, and that’s when it happens.

Their eyes meet, and instead of backing down or pulling out some anecdote about their dysfunctional friend group, Steve _holds his gaze_ through the smoke swirling off their cauldron. Bucky can’t move all of a sudden, completely frozen, and he might be hysterical because he thinks he’s suddenly hearing pitched circus music in the classroom. Steve finally breaks, eyes darting suddenly to the ground, but Bucky doesn’t have time to relax before he looks _right back up at him through his eyelashes_ (and Christ, those eyelashes are long and _Christ,_ that thought’s some serial killer bullshit). _Bucky_ has to be the one to finally cough and look away and turn down the heat before their cauldron volcanoes half-cooked rose petals all over them, and then he has to be the one to take the ladle out of Steve’s hands and give the potion a quick counterclockwise stir because Steve is inexplicably _still looking at him like that_ . He doesn’t know if his friend’s spacing out because of the pressure or if they’ve somehow fucked up the potion badly enough to create the fumes of a Dizzying Draught without them knowing, but whatever it is, he can’t bring himself to look at Steve again, just in case he’s still got _that look_. Whatever’s happening, it’s awkward and heavy and Bucky isn’t quite sure how to fill the silence on his own without Steve’s quick jabs to bounce off. Hell, he isn’t even sure what to _think_ , other than loud hysterical laughter. Which he _does_ think, very intently, making sure there’s no room for anything else. It’s oddly comforting that he’s self-aware enough to realize he’s going insane.

“Alright,” says Slughorn suddenly from _right fucking behind him_ , and Bucky flinches even as he keeps poking at his potion and making sure his mind is completely empty. He keeps his eyes fixed very firmly on the opaque surface of his potion and not on Steve Rogers because _fuck you, Slughorn, you just had to put up that tarp_. “You should all be about three-quarters of the way done, which means your potions should be starting to smell like proper amortentia soon.” He pauses by Sam’s and Rhodey’s cauldron, wafting the shimmering steam toward himself and nodding approvingly. “I’ll be coming around to make sure you’re on track.”

The third (and honestly, the most important) factor in play is that, for all they’re relatively deserving seventh years who got Exceeds Expectations on their Potions OWLs and are aiming for good scores on their NEWTs, the class as a collective can usually be expected to fuck up at least one cauldron spectacularly on any given day. Bucky’s friends have a running tally on a whiteboard in the Gryffindor common room, as a matter of fact, and an annual pool—sixth year had ended with a Slytherin victory, Natasha correctly predicting that melting would come up on top (thirty cauldrons), to Bucky and Clint’s corroding (twenty-four cauldrons) and Steve and Sam’s shattering (seven, those amateurs). Twenty minutes ago, a younger and more naive version of Bucky had been hoping someone’s potion would spontaneously combust, because (aside from being a good distraction that would’ve been likely to render the entire class useless for the rest of the period) two more explosions would’ve put the Hufflepuffs back on top of this year’s pool. Now, sitting next to Steve and resolutely not looking at him and his _eyes_ , he’d settle for someone fucking up their amortentia enough to cover the smell of Steve goddamn Rogers suddenly wafting through the room. If there’s one thing he can generally count on, it’s the incompetency of his peers.

But today is just _really not his fucking day_ , Bucky’s figuring out as he grits his teeth and glares what Tony calls his ‘assassination imminent look’ and Bucky calls his duelling face in a wide sweep across the class. Somehow, the high level of hormonal repression in the room isn’t making everyone worse; instead, inexplicably, Bucky is surrounded by twelve pots of perfectly brewed amortentia, twenty-three extremely uncomfortable classmates who are not making eye contact with each other, and one insufferably smug bastard prowling around the room surveying the damage like a drug lord looking over his empire. Slughorn meets his eye, and Bucky swears he sees the mustache twitch as his Professor glances pointedly over to Steve. Bucky looks too, against his better judgement—Steve has his jaw clenched in typical ‘fight me’ fashion, blushing and breathing slowly, eyes bright through the lazy swirls of steam as they meet Bucky’s.

Bucky inhales sharply through his nostrils as he glares murderously at the old man, but all that does is fill his lungs suddenly with the heavy smell of blood and cologne, and _how on Earth is that combination attractive to him?!_ He digs his fingernails into his palms and clenches his teeth, mouth suddenly dry, turning pointedly away and making a mental note not to go to the next Slug Club meeting (not that he goes much, he’d always been welcome but Slughorn hadn’t started inviting Steve until his growth spurt) before picking up a vial of peppermint oil and fixing his eyes determinedly back on his potion. He’s probably glaring a hole through it, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is that he does not let go of his focus for one goddamn millisecond, because if he does, he might just lose his mind entirely and let himself drown in what his stupid, Stark-sounding mind whispers is probably what the crook of Steve’s neck smells like. And then he’ll have to throw himself off the astronomy tower, and then who’s going to watch Steve’s back when he does stupid shit?

Bucky licks his lips before opening his mouth to breathe through it, because _it’s not his nose_ and also oxygen, when he hears a sharp inhale. Against his better judgement, his eyes snap up toward the sound — and it’s Steve _fucking_ Rogers, because of course it fucking is, leaning over the cauldron with an ashwinder egg in his hand, face mere inches from Bucky’s, and oh Jesus _fucking_ Christ if he isn’t looking directly at his mouth.

They stay frozen like that for a second, Bucky’s mouth frozen in an ‘o’, half a smoky breath suspended in his lungs, the low lights casting Steve in profile as he leans toward him over the cauldron. The hysterical laughter in his head gets louder. Briefly, he’s aware that the egg in Steve’s clenched hand has cracked, dripping yolk on the floor.

Something shifts behind Steve’s shoulder, and even in the goddamn twilight zone he’s probably in, Bucky can see Clint leaning in from the other side of the table, smiling like it’s Christmas in July and definitely not helping Bucky find a way to get out of here right now, at once, immediately. His left hand clenches, spasming nervously around the open bottle of peppermint oil in his hand. It’s involuntary, but he suddenly he realizes what he has to do.

He twitches, ‘accidentally’ dropping the entire bottle into their potion.

The effect is instantaneous; the glass shatters at the bottom and everything is suddenly overpowered by mint. Both Bucky and Steve reel back from their cauldron, eyes watering, and Bucky takes the opportunity to pull in a few deep breaths of sweet, amortentia-free air (although the mint hurts like a _bitch_ down his windpipe). The amortentia sputters, spitting sparks angrily and turning an unpleasant shade of chartreuse before the entire cauldron trembles. Bucky barely manages to wave a hand in front of his face, coughing, before the shimmering surface of the liquid catches fire and the cauldron practically falls away into a thick, viscous goop that melts through the table and into their shoes; everyone’s immediately alert, yelling frantically as they leap up onto their chairs. Slughorn calls calmly over the general din, wand already out. Bucky yanks his feet away in time and glances anxiously over to Steve, sighing in relief when he notes that his best friend already has his shoes propped up on the stool beside him and is now focused on the botched potion rather than his face.

“Fuck.” Clint looks more disappointed than he has any damn right to be. “Melting. One point to Natasha.”

* * *

 Steve is scraping the floor three cauldrons away, the rest of the class is filing out, and Clint has been shooting him pointed looks for the last fifteen minutes. Bucky rolls his eyes, grabs a sponge, and ducks under his table to clean off the remaining goop. Two seconds later, Clint ducks under with a sponge of his own.

“You  _coward."_

“Shut the fuck up, Barton.”

“I cannot _believe_ you.” Clint is practically crowing, digging the sponge into the floor particularly viciously as if emphasizing his point. “As if it could be any more obvious. What does he have to do, tackle you onto the table?”

“I swear to  _God_ —”

“‘Cause he was getting there, Barnes. He was reaching that point. Wilson saw his face with his own two eyes.” Clint doesn't even flinch when Bucky whacks him with the dirty sponge in his hand, instead scrubbing harder at the floor and wrinkling his nose at the resulting wave of peppermint. “Christ, couldn't you have dumped in the moonstone instead? If you're gonna sabotage yourself, at least get us a point. Nat’s gonna be insufferable if she wins again, she picks melting every time and she's on a three year streak because we're all too stubborn to admit she's right.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky shoots back dryly. “I was kinda preoccupied.”

“Eyefucking Rogers? I hadn't noticed.”

“For the love of—alright, we’re done here.” Bucky scowls, dropping the dirty sponge onto Clint’s head before fumbling into his robes and extracting his wand. “ _Scourgify._ ”

“Buzzkill.”

“I will give you a beak again, Barton, see if I don't—”

“Hey.” Steve pokes his head down under the table, eyebrow raising at Clint dual-wielding sponges. He looks entirely back to normal, which just cements the fact that that _thing_ half an hour ago was probably some self-indulgent fever dream. “We don't have time to clean the old fashioned way, next class starts in ten.”

“Tell that to Clint. _I_ cast my spells like a normal person. Watch and learn.” He pokes Clint in the nose with his wand for emphasis before pointing it at what’s left of the greasy sheen of peppermint oil staining the floor. “ _Tergeo_. See? Not hard.”

“We wouldn't be cleaning at all if you two could brew a potion to save your life.” Clint counters, standing and stretching. “Think that’s about good?”

“I’ll take care of the rest. You boys get to class.” Professor Slughorn waddles over, extinguishing the last lit fire with a flick of his wand. “Did you enjoy the lesson today, at least?”

“Immensely, sir,” Clint cackles. Steve nods emphatically. Bucky shoves down the urge to flip off his very old and wise professor, pursing his lips.

“I’m sorry for putting you on the spot at the beginning of class, Rogers.” He does not look sorry. He looks the exact opposite of sorry. “An old man’s curiosity, that’s all.”

“It’s alright, sir. No harm, no foul.” Steve smiles pleasantly, but hell if that isn’t a ghost of the shit-eating grin he only ever wears outside the classroom. “At least I couldn’t smell anything past Barton and whatever product he’s bathing in.”

“Blame Barnes, it’s his cologne.” Clint stares at Bucky meaningfully, as if this fact is somehow terribly important, even though he’s stealing Bucky’s cologne and hair product and also _soap_ every other weekend. On his left, Steve makes the sound of a man getting punched in the gut, but Bucky doesn’t have time to question it before Clint is meeting his eyes dead-on and opening his smirking mouth. “Speaking of you and your terrible sense of smell, Bucky, I gotta ask, what did the potion—”

Bucky snatches all three of his their bags off the bench before dragging both his friends into headlocks, one in each arm, and moving them forcefully toward the door.

“Ow! What the _fuck_ , Barnes—”

“Bucky, we’ve been  _over_ this, I am seventeen and also _taller than you_ now, god damn it—”

“Sorry, Professor, but we’ve gotta hurry. Clint’s got Professor McGonagall next, she’ll be pissed if anyone’s late.” Clint opens his mouth and Bucky tightens his arm a little around his neck, growling as threateningly as he can given that the other Hufflepuff probably holds his dignity in his stupid, currently-flipping-him-off hands. “See you next week!”

“I have you again Friday,” he hears Slughorn say bemusedly before the door to the dungeon slams shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so it's been a hot minute
> 
> but surprisingly, not as hot of a minute as it could have been!
> 
> honestly 90% of the reason this chapter took so long is because i wasn't entirely sure how to format the class and also how do i write steve goddamn rogers, really. and i'm still 90% sure i didn't do it right, tbh, but at this point i kinda...don't care. i'm having a surprising amount of fun writing this, so we'll see how it goes.
> 
> thanks for the reviews last chapter! i honestly wasn't entirely sure about the sorting i did with the characters--at the time, i don't think i'd read enough to have a firm grasp on them, and i kinda wanted them spread somewhat evenly among the four houses. someone asked me to list them, so here we go!
> 
> Gryffindor: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Thor Odinson, James 'Rhodey' Rhodes  
> Ravenclaw: Anthony 'Tony' Stark, Pepper Potts, Bruce Banner  
> Slytherin: Natasha Romanoff, Loki Odinson  
> Hufflepuff: James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes, Clint Barton
> 
> loki and thor are attending hogwarts for all seven years, so they got sorted into houses and shit, but since the scandinavian wizarding school system starts earlier and ends later than the british, they're still technically 'international students' from their school (is it stupid if i hc the name as 'asgard' lolol). wanda and pietro maximoff are also international students from durmstrang, but they're a year below the main characters (same year as peter parker). the twins'll show up a few chapters from now.
> 
> (t'challa, shuri, and okoye are all down in magically guarded wakanda being general badasses. i wanted to slip them into the part about international outreach but i couldn't. coulson, fury, and hill are all at ilvermony; in my version of hogwarts here, i guess it's something more akin to 'potential wizards apply to the school of their choice' rather than 'a school chooses you and you're stuck there'. probably just my way of circumventing shit so the main cast ends up at hogwarts while not actually being british.)
> 
> (in another world where i am better and also more consistent at writing, i'd do some sort of long term fic with all seven years of the marvel crew at hogwarts. but i'm not. so instead you have this.)


	3. Charms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christ, is he dead? Did he die in the cauldron explosion last class and end up sitting here because of the time he stole Rebecca’s lollipop in second grade, in literal hell with torture demons wearing the faces of his friends? Because that’s the only possible explanation he can think of for why his life has officially decided to become a crossover between a teenage drama, a horror movie, and a Greek fucking tragedy.

 

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood.” Tony’s smirking as he exits the transfiguration classroom, thumping Clint’s receding back as he skids to a stop by Steve and Bucky. Bucky’s not stupid enough to think he can properly read Tony’s variations, but hell if the expression on his face isn’t at least ten degrees more smug than its usual asshole self.

He returns it to the best of his ability and places a dramatic hand over his heart, naturally, because he too is an asshole and this is why he loves Tony. “Is that all I am to you, Stark? I’m hurt. _Hurt_. And here I was, just getting ready to profess my undying love to you on V-Day—ain’t that right, Steve?”

To his credit, Steve nods with his most demure ‘I-cannot-tell-a-lie’ expression and acts as if he hasn’t heard the whole muggle TV show spiel twenty times since Bruce accidentally let Tony know it existed. “He was gonna fight Pepper for your hand and everything.” He does this because he is also secretly (so, so secretly) an asshole, and that is how their friendship works.

“Aw, I’m sorry I led you on, sugarmuffin. You don’t have to take it personally, it’s just got more of a ring than Mr. Barnes’ cul-de-sac.” Tony snorts as the three run for the moving staircase, catching it before it disconnects from their platform; Steve and Tony jump the five-inch gap because they’re drama queens. “Hm. Actually, on second thought...”

“By all means, switch over. It’s bad enough hearing ‘Mr. Rogers’ from the professors, and I’m 90% sure _they_ don’t even mean anything by it.” Steve rolls his eyes, taking the steps two at a time because he can now with his longer legs. “So, transfiguration.”

“It was fun, it was fun.” Tony leans back on the handrail as the staircase creaks along, glancing at his watch and trying to act like he’s not out of breath from the effort to catch up with two star quidditch players. Bucky’s 60% sure he hasn’t figured out they’re doing it on purpose. “McGonagall got out the first syllable of a cuss word, so I can die a happy man. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t play coy with us, Stark. How long did it take? Who won the bet?”

“No use in asking, Buck. Natasha’s right, he probably riled her up on purpose to win.” Steve fiddles with impatience on the very last step before vaulting over the handrail and onto the platform before the staircase comes to a full stop; Tony mutters ‘parkour’ as Bucky resists the urge to grab him by the collar and yank him back to safety. It had worked when Steve was smaller, but the one time Bucky had tried to keep Steve from going airborne without a broomstick post-puberty four bones and a really offended painting of anteaters had ended up broken. This doesn’t stop Steve from calling over his shoulder, naturally, because he’s still a secret asshole. “Hurry it up, we’re gonna be late.”

“Hey, rude! Accurate, but rude!”

“Wait, wait. Ten minutes.” Bucky raises an eyebrow, power-walking in long strides while Tony has to jog to catch up to Steve; the Ravenclaw shoots him a dirty look as he nods in affirmation. “Really?! The fuck happened, then?”

“You doubt my abilities?” Tony tries his best to sound menacing, which is the same voice he has when he’s congested. It’s also undercut by the fact that, while Pepper’s taken out the cornrows, his hair still covers the full spectrum of the rainbow. “I have powers of which you cannot even fathom—”

Bucky snorts and cuffs him over the head; Tony attempts to dodge the motion with a yelp, hands flying instinctively to protect his hair. “Better not let Loki hear you saying that.” The last time Tony had mocked Loki and his melodrama, he’d hexed him. And also sulked, which had been significantly more traumatizing. “Seriously, though. That’s gotta be a record. How’d you do it?”

Tony says nothing, smirking at him again. It’s silent for a moment, which is an uncharacteristic experience in the presence of Tony Stark, but in that silence Bucky becomes suddenly aware of muffled yelling and scraping granite from the closed door further down the hallway.

It’s precisely at this moment that Steve, who’s still ahead of them, reaches the doorway to Charms and yanks it open. It’s kind of hard to see around his best friend’s bulky frame and into the classroom from five feet away, but what looks to be a literal wall of fat, naked cupid statues simultaneously stop humping each other against people’s textbooks and turn to Steve.

“Tony. You _didn’t_.”

The statues stare at Steve. Steve stares back. Bucky can’t tell from behind, but he’s pretty sure Steve full-body twitches. And Steve has no ‘flight’ instinct, Bucky’s pretty much confirmed this, so he has to wonder for a single hysterical second if he’s going to have to watch his best friend slash unrequited crush full-body tackle a pack (school? hoard?) of undressed stone babies before it hits noon on Valentine’s Day. The sad thing is, it probably wouldn’t even make him less attracted.

“Mm, Tony does as Tony pleases.”

The statues simultaneously launch into a full acapella version of ‘Careless Whisper’, complete with meaningful eye contact. Tony smiles angelically as Bucky turns to him in jerky movements, bowing with a smooth flourish.

“Just setting the mood for you, Buckaroo. You _were_ planning on tapping that sometime this century, right?”

It probably says something about him and how far he’s fallen, Bucky thinks numbly, that the thing he’s most bothered by is that Tony’s cupids are covering the iconic song without saxophone.

* * *

 Even on days when the world isn’t actively going out of its way to spite him, Charms is pretty consistently one of Bucky’s most eventful classes purely by virtue of the company he keeps there. If literally any of Bucky’s friends with half a sense of self-preservation _also_ took seventh-year Charms during second period on Monday-Wednesday-Fridays, things might be different. Sam, Bruce, Pepper, Rhodey — hell, even _Loki_ might’ve been able to curb the shenanigan level, given his lack of patience for the immature antics of mortals despite his own god-tier immaturity and antics and mortality. The ratio of constantly-done-with-all-your-shit members of Bucky’s friend group is surprisingly high, actually, considering the frequency of their Regularly Scheduled Magical Disasters™. The only explanation for why they keep messing shit up anyway is probably because the other members of the group (read: high-octane insanity risks) are just so far gone that they drown all the common sense out. And it just so happens that four of their most extreme flight risks all take seventh-year Charms during second period on Monday-Wednesday-Fridays.

Clint’s got Transfiguration and Thor’s got Herbology, which is probably the only reason Professor Flitwick is greying as opposed to prematurely balding, but in the end he’s still got four students with seven years of magical training and the foresight of particularly dim goldfish:

  1. Anthony Edward Stark, as brilliant as he is _fucking insane_ , whose life mission seems to be to utilize magic in a way that fucks the most shit up in the most noticeable way in the least amount of time without the least regard for immediate or long term consequences;
  2. Natasha Alianovna Romanoff (if that _even is her name_ ), as brilliant as she is _fucking terrifying_ , and the Hogwarts body at large used to think she was one of the sane ones before the incident fourth year with the acromantula and now they know that just because she’s quiet doesn’t mean she isn’t _deadly_ and also ready and willing to drop everything and fuck shit up at a moment’s notice (i.e. when Clint Barton or Steven Grant Rogers so much as make a casual suggestion with the wrong inflection);
  3. Steven Grant Rogers, the physical embodiment of ‘say-that-to-my- _face_ -motherfucker’ wrapped in a package of deceit and _lies_ that radiates ‘who-me-I-couldn’t-possibly-have’ with such alarming intensity that Gryffindor lost a collective thousand points before the professors finally realized that he could, in fact, have simply tripped the asshole of the day from across the hallway with a quick wand wave and feigned ignorance but instead _made the conscious decision not to_ because of honor and justice and fighting clean and the American way or some other nonsense;
  4. and James Buchanan Barnes, who is so used to swooping into whatever fucking dumpster fire Steven Grant Rogers creates on a daily basis and _scorched-earth burning that shit to the ground_ that he’s graduated from being one of the sane voices to being a dirty, dirty enabler far too fucking often.



And say what you will about Bucky Barnes, but at least he _knows_ what he’s doing. He’s highly doubtful that Steve _or_ Tony have cottoned onto their regular pattern of behavior, although he and Natasha have traded glances far too regularly at particular benchmarks in class for either to pretend they’re anything but willing accomplices. Their Regularly Scheduled Charms Chaos™ usually goes a little something like this:

  1. Professor Flitwick will introduce whatever they’re learning, actively aware of his impending doom and powerless to stop it;
  2. At the half-hour mark the class will be turned loose to practice in groups, at which point Charms becomes one of the most social classes at Hogwarts, at which point Tony will remember how much he loves hearing his own voice;
  3. By the thirty-five minute mark, Tony will have utilized said voice to stream-of-consciousness his way to some spectacularly terrible experimental idea and put it into motion, usually _with_ whatever they’re learning on any given day, and the novelty of it is probably what keeps his improvisational skills sharp or whatever;
  4. There was once a time when, if #3 hadn’t already thrown the class full-tilt into the depths of pure insanity, Steve would’ve overheard Brock Rumlow from the opposite corner of the classroom say something insensitive and gone full raging wildebeest on his ass. Nowadays, with said Slytherin safely tucked away in a completely different period, Steve is somehow _still_ usually channeling his limitless store of righteous fury into extreme passive-aggression and strangely inspirational bitching by the forty-five minute mark. This is usually because Tony, subconsciously sensing a cosmic imbalance in the chaos-order scale of the universe, has somehow riled him up to the point where Steve morally and fundamentally objects to whatever crackpot grand scheme Tony has in store for his newest hand-waved Random Magic Invention™ and the effect it will have on wizardkind and the fate of the entire universe (alternatively, Tony’s just personally offended him);
  5. at which point Bucky and Natasha, who have usually by the hour mark practiced the charm to death and are bored to tears, will suddenly receive a holy vision and remember that Wizard God placed them on this planet to make Professor Flitwick pass as many kidney stones as humanly possible and subsequently begin making stray observations and taking sides with their arguing friends (or, if they’re truly disinterested, use their newfound magic to somehow create an entirely new and separate disaster as Tony and Steve remain locked in their own metaphorical thunderdome);
  6. after which we somehow turn a profit.



It’s pretty standard fare, and it’s almost always localized entirely within Flitwick’s classroom, which is pretty much the only reason the castle is still standing. Every now and then, though, there are blips in the system; days when Tony’s batshit idea is just normal enough that it doesn’t cause an explosion, days when Steve agrees with Tony ( _sacrilegious,_ but it happens), days when Bucky and Nat are too burned out to do anything but shut the house down before the arguments can really get off the ground.

And then there are days when Tony streamlines #3 and everything goes to shit half an hour early, complete with times-two bonus damage for personal attacks on Steve Rogers.

Today, where Tony decided to win his transfiguration bet by animating every single cupid practice statue in McGonagall’s possession to sing muggle hits for the next twelve hours and then attuned them all to Steve the moment class ended, qualifies.

* * *

“Tony.” Steve is trying very hard to listen to Flitwick’s lecture on entrancing enchantments, which even Flitwick doesn’t seem too invested in giving considering the fact that there’s at least thirty cupids hovering around the room harmonizing and the one closest to Steve’s head is tenderly stroking his hair and belting ‘My Heart Will Go On’. “Tony, I swear to _Jesus God_ , if you don’t undo this right now—”

“You’ll what, preach him to death?” Bucky can’t help but snicker at the wide-eyed look of abject betrayal Steve shoots him, which quickly morphs into horror as the cupids take note and immediately segue into ‘Love the Way you Lie’. Bucky very pointedly gives Tony his ‘assassination imminent look’, if only to hide the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s seconds away from bursting into flame. “You know what, I’ve changed my mind. Preach away.”

“You’ve outdone yourself, Stark.” Natasha looks unruffled through it all, relaxing back in her chair as a couple of sighing cupids cling to her calves like lovesick maidens on the covers of harlequin novels. Judging by the eyebrow raise and the half-smirk she throws Bucky, he’s not doing a very good job of hiding his blushing. “However much money you earned from that bet, it’s not enough.”

“ _Don’t encourage him,_ ” Steve and Bucky hiss simultaneously. Bucky’s dimly aware of the cupids switching over to Backstreet Boys as he calls jinx, to which Steve gives him the _look_ that says ‘we are no longer five and also live in a magical castle where I could go get a can of coke from the kitchens for free’ (but also doesn’t say anything, so who’s the real winner here).

“Mr. Stark, do you mind?” Flitwick’s voice is sharp, but his head is bobbing along to ‘I Want it That Way’. Natasha’s mouthing the words along serenely on Bucky’s left, which honestly kind of makes him lose respect for her because the lyrics have _never made sense_.

“Yessir.” Tony, who always needs to have his way, waves his hand; the cupids don’t fall silent, but fade into the shadows of the classroom and keep their singing down to a low humming. The ballads actually make for pretty fitting background music as Flitwick claps his hands sharply and rallies.

“As I was saying—entrancing enchantments.” His moustache curls as he smiles. “It’s something of a specialty of mine, actually,” he continues, and Steve has to thump Bucky hard on the back because Bucky nearly chokes on the sudden mental image. “The effect of stronger entrancing enchantments can be remarkably similar to that of amortentia, but these charms are nevertheless far less popular than their potion counterparts. Could anyone tell me why that might be? Mr. Lang?”

“Uh, because it takes the glamour out of magically-induced romantic coercion?”

A ripple of laughter passes through the class, and Bucky smirks because he’s not technically wrong. That one’s on Flitwick, and to his credit he simply sighs and shifts his attention down the line. “Mr. Strange?”

“Because it’s easier to reverse a charm than to reverse the effects of a potion, and easier to subtly slip someone a potion than cast a highly visible spell without the victim knowing.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Slytherin. Now, watch my wand movements and follow along. The incantation is...”

* * *

There are, in the broadest of terms, two types of charms: charms you cast on things, and charms you cast on people. In other words, there are two types of charms _classes_ : classes where they get to fuck with shit, and classes where they get to fuck with _each other_.

Bucky, locking eyes furiously with an equally challenging Steve whilst simultaneously regretting every single past precedent he’s set for their little quartet, has a feeling today’s gonna be the latter.

“Before I let you go to your normal groups and practice, I’m going to stress once again that you _reverse the charm_ after recording the effects and verifying that you’ve cast it properly.” The professor’s probably talking solely to Tony, but Bucky doesn’t bother looking to make sure; instead, he raises an eyebrow. _Don’t you fucking dare, you goddamn punk. Say the words and you’re a dead man, I don’t care how pretty your face is._ “The spell we’ll be working with has relatively mild effects but lasts longer because of it, and I do _not_ want to be hearing anything about it being used outside of this room. I’ll be walking through class. I’ll be _watching_. Yes, Mr. Stark, don’t look so confused. I’m talking to you.”

Steve shakes his head once, jaw set in its usual stubborn manner. As is usually the case when he gets that look on his face, Bucky wants to slap some sense into him. _It doesn’t have to be this way, god damn it. Don’t think you can win here, Rogers. I know where you live. I know what you fear. I will haunt your fucking drea_ —

“Dismissed!”

Steve and Bucky blurt it out in unison. “DIBS ON NATASHA—”

“—jinx!”

“— _fuck!_ ”

“You know how it goes, Steve, James. If two of you call me at the same time, it’s my decision.”

“Nat, I swear to God, I will owe you for the rest of my natural-born life—”

“Stop. I get to pick, and my pick is James.”

There are certain rules, you see, to their delicate arrangement in Charms class; Bucky’s pretty sure Tony scrawled them down once as a joke, at which point it was promptly confiscated by Flitwick. The first rule is, inanely enough, that you don’t talk about fight club (and _what monster_ has been introducing Tony to muggle media and _how much_ will it cost Bucky to get them shut in Azkaban), and the second and only other rule is that it’s first-come first-serve, shotgun-style rules. The moment Flitwick dismisses them, whoever calls someone first gets to practice the spell of the day on that person, all the way until everyone’s called and gotten called once. That way, they never again end up with the debacle in third year when everyone wanted to cast the silencing charm on Tony and ended up rendering him entirely mute (and, as it turned out, twenty times more volatile) for a solid month.

Today, the hot commodity is Natasha.

Bucky wants to _survive_ to see his twenties and he’s pretty damn sure he wouldn’t live through five minutes of either Tony or Steve being hopelessly infatuated with him, albeit for two _very_ different reasons. He’s not entirely sure why Steve would rather cast the spell on Natasha than him — should he be offended? He should probably be offended — but Natasha’s probably the least likely to embarrass the person she’s temporarily infatuated with, and Bucky at least understands why no one in the world would want _Tony Stark_ to be hopelessly besotted with them for any more than two seconds. Really, Bucky’s pretty sure the only reason Pepper’s still going along with it is because Tony’s too in love with himself to fully focus his attention on her.

Speaking of Tony, Bucky comes to the sudden realization that the Ravenclaw’s observing events without saying a word, which is never a good sign because Tony is only ever quiet when he’s preparing to drop a bombshell and wants the prerequisite dramatic silence. He rounds on him. “Uh...Stark? Any thoughts? What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Tony smiles slow and lazy, and if Bucky ever sees a boggart again in his life he swears to God it’s gonna be that exact man wearing that exact expression. “Well, since Natasha’s off the table now, I was just wondering who _I_ should call dibs on.”

Oh. _Oh._

Bucky’s head whips around to Steve, matching expressions of horror dawning on their faces, because as bad as it’d be to have Tony besotted with you it’s going to be eight hundred times worse being besotted with _Tony_ and honestly, in the entirely silent battle over who would get Natasha and her comparatively subdued romantic overtures they’d completely forgotten that the arrangement usually ends up with the castee merciless to the whims of the caster.

“Pick Bucky.” Steve’s face is all business in an instant, deadly serious. “Tony. I will owe you ten thousand favors. I will—I will tell you you’re a genius. To your face. I will _let you record it._ _Pick him._ ”

“ _You goddamn punk._ ” Bucky punches Steve in the bicep, which only succeeds in bruising his knuckles because _goddamn growth spurt_. He grabs Tony by the cheeks, looking him dead-on in those cold, sadistic eyes. “Remember who you are, Simba. Your life goal is to give Steve an aneurysm. You know this. I know this. Look into my eyes and remember who the real enemy is.”

“I am _not_ the enemy!”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Rogers, you’re jinxed!”

“So are you!”

“You were jinxed _first!_ ”

“Buck, c’mon, you know what he’ll do to me.” The Brooklyn’s crawling back into his wheedling voice, the manipulative fuck. “You look out for me, right? You wouldn’t put me through that, would ya?”

“Turn those goddamn eyes off, oh my _god,_  you cheating _bastard._ ” Is his bottom lip _quivering?_ What the  _fuck_ did Sarah Rogers teach her son? Why the _fuck_ is it working?! “Oh my _God_ —it’s not even my choice, it’s Stark’s! What do you want me to do, throw myself in front of the goddamn bus?” Because the sad thing is he’d probably do it, he’s done it many, many times before, and most of the time Steve isn’t even asking him to.

Steve switches target immediately, taking advantage of Bucky’s weakened state, because he’s a _secret goddamn asshole._ “I’ve already got the cupids on me, Tony, how much more do you want from me? Haven’t I been hurt enough today?”

“Uh-uh. You’d better turn back to Barnes—I am immune to guilt, shame, and puppies.”

“ _Bucky_. Please. You know I’d do it for you, but whatever he’s got planned for me would be a thousand times worse than what he’d do to you.” God damn it, he’s _right._ And Steve can probably tell Bucky’s wavering, because he snaps him those pitiful eyes again. “C’mon, Buck, I’m already all alone and miserable on Valentine’s Day.”

And if _that_ doesn’t snap him out. “Yeah, tough on you, _so am I_ —”

“Boys. Over here.”

All three heads turn over the moment Natasha snaps her fingers, which now that Bucky thinks about is terrifying and means that she wields too much goddamn power in her manicured hands than any one person should. She’s looking between the three of them now, gaze narrowed and scrutinizing; Bucky’s eyes flicker over quickly to Steve, who is giving her his best moping look. _Fuck._ When her gaze lands on Bucky, she tilts her head. Bucky meets the stare head-on, silently trying to convey with his eyes that he will be talking about this fucking day for years to come, to his therapist, probably, as a source of trauma and the key reason why he hasn’t left his house in twenty years.

Abruptly, she nods to herself, satisfied. ”Stark. Pick Steve.”

“HA!”

“WHAT?!”

“Dibs on Rogers, then.” Tony nods to her, and the two share a look that suddenly makes Bucky’s intestines shrivel because he’s pretty sure that is a look of _mutual understanding_ , and the last time Tony and Natasha teamed up for anything ever the entire house of Gryffindor ended up in the hospital wing supposedly on accident but probably on purpose. And then Tony looks at him and Bucky feels the rest of him shrivel because he _winks._ “Enjoy the show, Barnes. Remember, it could’ve been you.”

“Who in their right mind would _want_ to be entranced by y — ” Oh. Oh, that’s not what he meant. Not he could’ve been Steve, that he could’ve called dibs and been _Tony_. Aaaand...yep, now he’s thinking about it. Bucky draws in a sharp breath through his teeth, looking from Tony to Natasha to their matching fucking cheshire smiles. Oh, those conniving _bastards._

“What?” Steve who has his face currently pressed against the table in abject misery, tilts his chin up confusedly.

“Nothing.” Bucky doesn’t even look over, pushing his hand into Steve’s hair and gently mashing his head back into the desk so his best friend won’t have to see him frantically mouth every cuss word he knows and also the killing curse at the two laughing sadists across from him. “Okay, so I get to cast on Nat, Stark gets to cast on Steve—”

“And I’m calling dibs on Stark.” Natasha flicks her hair out of her eyes, voice lilting with amusement. “You’ll hold the camera for me, James, won’t you?”

“...As if you have to ask.” Bucky relents and matches her knowing smirk, because he can’t stay mad at her, especially not to the sweet sweet background noise of Stark’s sudden choking complaints. For a second, he lets himself bask in the taste of karmic victory and schadenfreude, because as horrifying as it might be watching Steve get enchanted by Stark, it’ll also be deeply,  _deeply_ amusing, and Stark flirting with Natasha will give them both good blackmail for at least a decade, so overall this isn’t really the worst case scenario.

And then her smirk turns positively lethal.

“Of course, now that three of us have called dibs, it means Steve’ll be casting on you.”

Steve’s head immediately shoots off the desk as he makes a choking sound that Bucky feels resonate in the depths of his immortal soul. “WHAT?!”

“By default.” Tony’s grumbling petulantly, arms crossed. Steve slowly lowers his head back into the desk with a gentle _thunk_. “You’re entrancing Nat. Nat’s entrancing me. I’m entrancing Steve. Steve isn’t entrancing anyone, you’re not being entranced—’s the only pair left.”

“Or he could cast on one of you guys again and let me maintain my fucking dignity. Is that too much to ask?” It really is, with this group of friends and Bucky’s goddamn lifestyle choices. He wonders for a second what life would have been like if he’d attended Ilvermorny—boring, probably, and also significantly less likely to send him to an early grave.

“Sorry, James. Not how the rules work.” Fucking Natasha. _Fucking rules_. Bucky contemplates bashing his head against a wall and sending himself to the hospital wing, because that would probably be better than sitting through another goddamn second of what he’s pretty sure is officially the fourth circle of hell. Jesus Christ, is he _dead?_ Did he die in the cauldron explosion last class and end up sitting here because of the time he stole Rebecca’s lollipop in second grade, in literal hell with torture demons wearing the faces of his friends? Because that’s the only possible explanation he can think of for why his life has officially decided to become a crossover between a teenage drama, a horror movie, and a _Greek fucking tragedy_. “Equal opportunity and whatnot—everyone curses someone else. We all screw with each other, so we all get screwed.”

“I have been _getting screwed,_ ” Bucky hisses, and he hears Steve make another choked off sound into the desk. As if his life is so terrible when Bucky is going to have an entrancing enchantment put on him by the _guy he is actually kind of entranced by_ (and yeah, okay, the wordplay wasn’t worth it and he cringes when he thinks it). “I have been getting screwed _all day_ by fucking _life_ , Natasha, give me a goddamn _break_ —”

“Alright, that’s the end of that discussion. _Fatumora!_ ”

Natasha accompanies her last word by whipping her wand in the complicated pattern Flitwick demonstrated earlier, and a stream of purple light and smoke envelops a completely unprepared Tony Stark. Natasha tosses something in the air, and Bucky’s chaser instincts instinctively reach to catch it—a magical camera, capable of taking moving pictures. He sighs, turning it over in his hands. If he’s gonna go out, he might as well go out with a laugh and a few hundred Polaroids to hold over Tony Stark’s rainbow-colored head. “Hey, Steve?”

From where his head is on the table, Steve makes a groaning sound. Bucky’s hand is still buried in his hair; he ruffles the golden strands slightly, feeling a dopey smile cross his face as he does. He doesn’t even have the willpower to attempt to stamp it out of his soul anymore.

“C’mon, Steve, look alive. Tony’s been enchanted. Don’t you wanna watch? Get your laughs in before he does it to you?”

“Mrrf.” Steve turns his head so his cheek is rubbing the wood, staring up at Bucky. “I’ve changed my mind. We should’ve agreed to call dibs on each other before class started, made life easier. _Tony_ , Bucky.  _Tony._ ”

“Speak for yourself, buddy. I get to enchant Natasha, get enchanted by you. I’m pretty happy with this arrangement.” Bucky chuckles, letting his fingernails dig lightly into his friend’s scalp; he’s dimly aware that somewhere on his right, Tony’s emerged coughing from the cloud of purple dust. He glances up briefly, snapping a quick picture with his free hand.

“...Wait, only ‘pretty’ happy about fallin’ for me?” Steve smiles so hard his eyes crinkle and Bucky’s mind is suddenly halfway between melting to jelly and yelling at all his higher mental facilities to ABORT, ABORT EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW IMMEDIATELY. Somewhere eighty miles away from his consciousness, a stone cupid is crooning ‘ _we found love in a hopeless place_ ’ and Bucky wants to kill it with fire. “I’m the best damn thing that’s ever happened to you and you know it, you jerk.”

Somewhere, there is a put-together version of Bucky Barnes who can react to this statement from this man with this expression in a collected, put-together manner and his usual sass. That version of Bucky Barnes can go straight to hell for taking the day off. Instead, Bucky just yanks Steve up lightly by the hand in his hair, shaking his head with a chuckle and trying very hard not to _combust_. “Keep telling yourself that, ya punk.”

“As touching as this is, will someone please take a picture of this trainwreck before it goes away?” Natasha’s voice cuts through Bucky’s thoughts like a knife; he yanks his hand away from Steve’s hair so fast that he gets a hiss of pain and a few golden strands for his troubles, whipping around towards her. Said Slytherin is currently doing a rather impressive job of multitasking, taking notes while simultaneously keeping Tony at arms length and shooting Bucky a look that says something along the lines of _‘your need is showing_ ’ in the most mortifying way possible. ”I need a birthday present for Pepper and I really think this could be it. C’mon, James, I gave you the camera for a _reason_.”

“Steve’s got a better artistic eye.” Bucky snaps a picture anyway, catching Tony mid-flail as he claws for Natasha despite the fact that her foot is planted squarely on his shoulder.

“Steve also has moral objections to blackmail.” Natasha raises an eyebrow at him in challenge; Steve frowns, raising his own in return before plucking the camera out of Bucky’s grip.

“I’ll live,” he says shortly, a familiar shit-eating grin rising to his lips. He leans back, tilts a little, snaps a picture from an unflattering angle, and Bucky shakes his head and laughs because _Christ_ , he really is a closet asshole, isn’t he.

“Nat _asha_ , baby, have I ever told you—”

“That I'm gorgeous? Amazing? The best thing that's ever happened to you? Save it, Stark, I already know all those things.” Natasha readjusts her foot so it’s pressed into his cheek as she uses one hand to hold her paper steady and jots something down with her other; she’s clearly enjoying herself. For a second, Bucky regrets not calling dibs on Tony. Then he remembers that Tony is a menace and his life hates him a lot more than Natasha’s hates her. “Steve?”

“On it.” He snaps a few more pictures, circling them from different angles as Natasha shoves him around. “So this is what Tony’s like when he’s infatuated with someone, huh?”

“Like he wants to play with the new shiny thing for the next eight years? You _have_ met him, right?” Natasha raises an eyebrow as Tony begins petting her hair, clinging to her arm and babbling non-stop about how she’s sexy and dangerous like a muggle motorcycle. It would been significantly funnier if Bucky wasn’t coming to the slow-moving realization that he’ll probably be doing something very similar very soon and hey, isn’t that a thought that should probably be compartmentalized and shut miles and miles deep and not dealt with until he has to on pain of death? In, say, half an hour when he’s staring down the length of Steve’s wand (and less in an innuendo way and more in an about-to-be-magicked way)?

“Alright, you two, smile for the camera.” Steve laughs as Natasha gives him a raised eyebrow and a quick quirk of the lips; Tony, who for some reason cannot have the spotlight move off him for more than five seconds even when charmed, begins to whine for her attention at a pitch reserved for dolphins. Simultaneously all three stuff their fingers in their ears, which is bad for both Natasha and Steve because Steve accidentally hits himself in the face with the camera in his hands and Natasha ends up balancing on one leg with two hands occupied and one foot actively keeping away the full weight of an overexcited Tony Stark.

“Christ, Stark, where’s the mute button?”

“Alright, Nat, that’s enough. Turn it off.  _Turn it off!"_

“I can’t hear you! I’m gonna reverse the spell!” Bucky’s seen Natasha face down acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest, so it’s a testament to the sheer destructive power of Tony Stark’s ability to annoy people that he sees her visibly wince as she extracts a finger from her ear and pats blindly around the desk for her wand. She finally grasps it, practically smacking Steve in the face with it as she lashes it toward the Ravenclaw.

“ _Finite Incantatem!”_

There’s a brief moment of sweet, sweet peace as red light envelops Tony and shuts his goddamn motormouth; Bucky lets his fingers fall from his ears, a serene smile spreading over his face as he basks in the glory of a moment’s peace in the middle of his no good, very bad day. Then, he realizes that the end of Tony’s tenure as resident jester means one of three scenarios is about to play out, and that he needs to do something about it before someone else figures it out too: either he’s going to cast an entrancing enchantment on Natasha, which will probably get him killed, or he’s going to have to watch Tony cast one on Steve, which will definitely get him killed, or Steve is going to cast one on him, which will _definitely_ get him _killed_.

Bucky’s never really thought of himself as a masochist, but clearly some deeply repressed part of his psyche secretly craves the torture of a long, drawn-out death, because rather than getting either of his two doomsday scenarios over with he raises his wand and whips it in a familiar fashion at Natasha. You know, like a  _coward._

“Look alive, Nat! _Fatumora!_ ”

“Oh, you _fucking_ _basta_ —”

Steve winces from where he’s trying to help a mildly dazed Tony to his feet as Natasha’s cut off by a mouthful of purple smoke, because he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and chivalry is not dead. “I don’t think I can save you when she gets back.”

“Yeah, kinda panicked and shot myself in the foot there.” Because he’s his own worst goddamn enemy. “Will you cover for me if I just never unenchant her? We can stash her in the Room of Requirement and hide her from Clint for the next eighty years, right?”

“Nope,” Steve says, smirking, because he’s a perfect fucking asshole and chivalry is dead. “Christ, Tony, if I swear this isn’t some sort of mind-game power play will you take my hand and get off the floor already?”

“No. Leave me to die.” Tony groans, throwing an arm over his eyes and tilting his face toward where Bucky’s seriously considering bolting from the room and offering himself to the Giant Squid, whose wrath is infinitely preferable to Natasha’s. For his part, Tony sounds like he’d be perfectly content with lying on the floor and getting stepped on for the next twenty hours if it meant taking a break from his recent shame. Then again, maybe Bucky’s just projecting. “Damn, JB, I gotta hand it to ya. That takes balls.”

“Don’t call me that.” Bucky’s 70% sure someone’s told Tony about Justin Bieber and he’s saying it on purpose to fuck with him, but the other 30% can’t ask to confirm because if he does Tony will _definitely_ look him up and then he’ll never hear the end of it regardless. “And whatever happens in Charms _stays_ in Charms. Agreed?”

“Geez, buddy, I don’t know.” Tony’s clearly feeling better, or at least well enough to be a goddamn dick again. “ _You’re_ the one who was snapping pictures, not me.”

“C’mon, Stark, I _bunk_ with Clint. I sleep three feet above him at all times. Do you know the damage he can do to me in four hours unattended?”

“It’s best to get six to eight hours of sleep every ni—”

“I meant what I said, Rogers, you heard me.”

“Aw, last name treatment? And here I was, about to offer you the Gryffindor password and the empty bunk under me.”

Bucky can _feel_ Tony wiggling his eyebrows, and for a second he’s tempted to inform Tony smugly that he crashes on that bunk after late-night study sessions anyway, and that he and Steve don’t even bother with separate mattresses over the summer holidays. Then, he realizes that he rather likes the single remaining shred of dignity he has and makes a mental note to buy his inner shame-seeking masochist a muzzle (or a ball gag or something, whatever they use these days) as soon as possible before it keeps finding new and creative ways to ruin his life. He compromises by digging his foot into Tony’s side pointedly and smiles at the returning wince he gets, because the sadistic side is far easier to satisfy. “Joke’s on you, Sam already gives me the Gryffindor password.” As a matter of fact, Sam gives _everyone_ the Gryffindor password, just in case Steve suddenly sustains a Level 5+ injury (Quidditch, Thor-Related Accidents, Groups of Bullies ( >4), Heroic Acts of Self-Sacrifice) and needs to be monitored in shifts to make sure he doesn’t leave to do stupid things like operate his own day-to-day life, but he doesn’t need to know that. Bucky takes on his wheedling voice, the one he usually uses between Stage Two of Making Steve Do Things™ (make rational arguments) and Stage Four (‘Eat your damn soup, Rogers, or I swear to God I’ll put it in your IV and I’d like to see you rip it out with two broken arms’). “You wouldn’t kick me out if you saw me there and leave me at the mercy of Clintasha, would you, Stevie? Not your best guy? They’d feed me to the _acromantulas._ ”

“This is so sweet,” Tony mutters from the floor. “You’re _disasters_. You’re _disaster-flirting._ ”

“I will _step on your junk_ , Stark. You will _never have children_. I would be doing this world a _favor._ ”

“With Truth, Justice, and the American Bae right here? He’d never let that happen.” Tony directs his gaze to Steve. “C’mon, Rogers, you’d wouldn’t let Mr. Murder Eyes here steal the Stark family jewels and deprive the future-world of more me, would you? Think of Pepper, at least. Think of the children.  _My_ children.  _Our_ children, if you will.”

“Tony, you’re going to cast an _entrancing enchantment_ on me. Any other day, maybe. Today, I make no promises.”

“...James?”

All three heads whip immediately toward Natasha (and _really_ , _too much power for one person_ ) who’s sprawled on the floor, dazed.

“Hey, Nat.” Bucky keeps his voice low and level as he sits down next to her and nudges her shoulder with his, because the last time he majorly fucked up a charm Steve had ended up with the mind and instincts of an overexcited puppy for a day and a half and boy, had that been humiliating and extremely well-documented. Bucky’s already resigned himself to departing V-Day 2018 without any fucks left to give and also potentially in a casket, but the least he can do is try to help one of his closest friends maintain her dignity. “How are you feeling?”

“You’re all on the floor now.” Steve glances up from where he’s taking notes and pulls a face, which should make him look unattractive but stupidly doesn’t. “Is it weird that I feel kinda left out?”

“It is. This floor’s disgusting.” Bucky taps Natasha lightly in the arm as she stirs a little in response, eyes refocusing on him. “Seriously, Nat, you okay? I can call over Flitwick. Do you know where we are?”

Natasha blinks at him for a few seconds owlishly before her face abruptly splits in a smirk; in the time it takes for Bucky to think _fuck, fuck, run_ and also _honestly, getting murdered second period is probably the best case scenario for how this day ends_ he’s flat on his back, the front of his robes twisted in her hand, with her wand prodding sharply into the vein at his neck. Tony and Steve are up in seconds, wands out, and he’d be a little more flattered about it if they didn’t suddenly freeze with stupidly terrified expressions as Natasha begins chuckling lowly to herself.

“Uh...Nat?”

“I know _exactly_ where we are,” she purrs, digging her wand in a little harder, and Bucky raises both his eyebrows as high as he can and glares at his two stationary friends because sure, he’d welcome the sweet embrace of death, but are they _really_ letting him go like this? “I’m in Charms class, and _you’re_ right where I want you.”

It takes a second for the words to register, but when they do, Bucky slams his head back against the floor as hard as he can with a laugh so loud and sudden that Tony jumps, trips over a chair, and ends up back on the floor. Because _of fucking course,_ for all Natasha seemed like the safest and most understated option back when they were choosing who to enchant, _of fucking course_ having a crush would turn her into a secret serial killer who’s probably going to rip his head off right here in the middle of Charms class and consume it for sustenance, black widow style. Christ, is this how she and Clint get their kicks, fighting each other to the point of death? When they say they’re going off to fight with each other, do they _actually mean fighting_ and not innuendo for sex?

“Sorry, Nat, but I ain’t that easy.” His own wand’s out in a second, pressed awkwardly into her side as he matches her smirk with a shit-eating grin. This, at least, is comfortable territory for him; if there’s one thing he can do, it’s be an asshole. _“Flipendo!”_

Bucky would normally feel worse about the fact that he throws her clear into Tony, who takes the blow by huddling into a ball and screaming, but he doesn’t really have time before she’s back on her feet. Her smile is somehow _wider_ , and Bucky’s beginning to think that playing her game was maybe not the best idea because he’s beginning to feel a little like a wounded gazelle in front of a tyrannosaurus rex, and really, when did this become his life and how can he return to that moment and do the literal opposite of whatever he did to get here?

_“Rictusempra!”_

_“Protego!”_ And okay, so maybe Bucky tilts the shield charm so Natasha’s spell bounces in Steve’s general direction, because let it never be said that James Buchanan Barnes is not something of a little shit. Steve switches his pencil quickly over to his left hand and waves the spell away with his wand, shooting Bucky a glare and making a very slow, pointed note in his notebook. “A _tickling_ spell? _Really,_ Nat? What’s _that_ supposed to say about me?!”

_“Tarantallegra!”_

Bucky ducks, rolling his eyes; the spell flies over his head and hits Hope van Dyne on the other side of the room. The stone cupids are singing ‘Just Dance’, which really just goes to show that Tony still hasn’t gotten to 2010 with his muggle music consumption. “Geez, if you wanted to take me out dancing you coulda just asked! _Incarcerous!_ ”

Natasha doesn’t even look _surprised_ as cords spring from thin air and wrap around her arms; if anything, she looks pleased, and for a second Bucky kind of regrets summoning them in the first place. Steve darts forward from where he’s watching Bucky’s back to confiscate Natasha’s wand, face uncharacteristically sour considering he duels friends and foes alike on the regular. “Well played, James. This is why you’re my favorite, you know.”

“Aw, I’m flattered.” He flashes her his signature smirk, because when all else fails and life is a confusing trainwreck what else can you do but grin and bear it? He’s dimly aware that Tony’s taking pictures off to the side, which...yeah, is probably fair. He beckons him closer. “Better’n Clint, even? Because I should definitely get that on record.”

“Better than...” For a second her face twists as she frowns, opinions reframed under the spell, before breaking into a knowing smirk. Somehow, she seems more herself when she says it. “Yeah, I think so. I love Clint, God help me, but sometimes he’s _annoying._ ”

“Whoomp, there it is.” Tony lowers the camera, grinning like a madman. “Now ballpark me, Brochanan—how much would it cost to get this on a certain Hufflepuff’s pillow tonight?”

“How _dare_ you insinuate such a thing, Stark. I’m a Hufflepuff myself, you know. We’re literally _known_ for being loyal. House pride, go badgers, etcetera.”

“The change you lost in the transfiguration bet?”

“I can’t be bought. I _bleed the yellow and black,_ and we have _values._ ”

“Plus thirty galleons.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Yeah, okay, Bucky’s cheap. Thirty galleons can buy a comparatively impressive amount of chocolate frogs, and he has what he calls a ‘weakness’ and what Steve calls an ‘addiction’. “Tell you what, double it and I’ll get Nat to say she loves me, too.”

“You’re pretty, James, but you’re not that pretty.” She tosses her head and looks up at him through her eyelashes, which would be more effective if he weren’t used to the look from both her _and_ Steve. “Buy me dinner first, then we’ll see.”

“Even when charmed, huh?” All his friends are assholes. Then again, Bucky himself is an asshole. Then _again_ , Bucky has a thing for assholes, which is pretty clear considering he’s been into the feistiest asshole he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing for — Jesus, has it been a decade now? “This is why you’re _my_ favorite, Romanoff—”

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

Bucky has to blink and process for a second as red light glows from Steve’s wand and envelops Natasha and disintegrates the cords, because the narrowed eyebrow and clenched jaw his best friend’s sporting are usually reserved for people who kick small animals or infringe on basic freedoms and he’s pretty sure they’ve done neither. “C’mon, Steve, we were just having fun.”

“Yeah, way to shut us down, _Mr. Rogers._ ” Years of extremely volatile magic experimentation have clearly taken their toll on Tony’s self-preservation instinct, because he intercepts Steve’s murderous glare without a second thought and lifts the camera in his hands leisurely, snapping a few pictures of Steve’s glowering face. Bucky can only watch, mildly concerned at a situation that seems to be approaching Step 4 of Regularly Scheduled Charms Chaos™, as Tony squints at the photos he’s taken, looks back up to Steve’s face, and suddenly begins hyperventilating with hyena laughter. “Wait a minute, don’t tell me you’re _jea_ —”

Something about the day is throwing off Bucky’s ‘Steve-Alert’ sense, because before he can intervene some two-hundred-plus pounds of his best friend achieve flight as a panicking Steve physically launches himself over a chair to slap his hands over Tony’s mouth. “That’s not—no! It isn’t like that—Tony, shut the _heck_ up, it just doesn’t feel right to do that to Clint—stop licking my hand, damn it! Stop laughing! Besides, I’ve taken notes and compared it to the book, so Bucky cast the spell correctly and there wasn’t any more reason to—”

On one hand, there’s a sense of relief, because if there’s two things Bucky knows it’s that Steve Rogers blushes easy and that he’s _terrible_ at lying despite being a lying liar who lies, and right now it’s pretty clear he’s doing both. Besides, if he’s just trying to shut Tony up (and really, who _hasn’t_ tried to shut Tony up before) as opposed to, say, punching him clean in the face, whatever’s happening can’t be too terrible—more or less, perhaps, but nothing beyond the normal scope of Charms class shenanigans. Nothing Bucky needs to get actively involved in. Situation normal, all fucked up.

On the other hand, Bucky slowly realizes, the situation is not normal at _all_ , because for once he _doesn’t know_ what Steve is bothered and lying _about_ , and yes, maybe he’s putting a bit too much stock in what Sam calls their relationship-exclusive legilimens abilities, but Bucky can count the number of times he’s been completely in the dark about what Steve’s thinking on one hand with all the fingers chopped off. This time, though, he’s pretty admittedly stumped: if it were the idea of the enchantments themselves (and honestly, getting pissed at the removal of autonomy and forced change of mental state even within the confines of the classroom _sounds_ like something Steve would do) Bucky’s sure they all would’ve gotten a pretty solid earful by now, and Steve has too much faith in his friends to really believe anything Natasha would say in an enchanted state would truly hurt Clint. And _then_ there’s the matter of Tony (who, Bucky notes as he checks in from his out-of-body experience, has now been magically gagged by Steve), who was clearly about to say something that, judging by Steve’s reaction, was probably at least partially accurate. As if the day needed to get any weirder, it seems they’ve reached a point where _Tony_ is now better at reading Steve than _Bucky_ is — and no, he’s not bitter about this at all. ‘Slightly panicked’ is probably the better term, although he remembers the whole unspoken ‘one-upping’ battle he’d had when Sam first started befriending Steve and decides quickly he’d rather not jump back into that pool, because they’d only started getting along after Steve and Natasha forcefully shut them into a broom closet for eighteen hours and that was back when they’d only had a _year_ worth of magical training. If he starts trying to assert some sort of strange friendship-dominance over Steve within an enclosed space now, as a seventh year, against _Tony_ , the castle probably wouldn’t come out standing, so _why_ is he still considering this truly hysterical train of thought? Oh, right, because it’s V-Day 2018—

“Snap out of it, James. You’re gonna hurt yourself, thinking too hard.”

“Aw, is that any way to treat your _favorite?_ ” Bucky drawls out the vowels, sagging a little into Natasha’s side and sighing because his life is a stupid, stupid dumpster fire and honestly, god bless that woman.

“Is that any way to treat your _self?_ ” Natasha drags him over so they can sit on the table, slings an arm around his shoulder and pokes him in the temple with the same hand, eyes trained firmly on Steve and Tony as they play an increasingly stupid game of trying to steal their wands from each other, because she understands that emotions are stupid and Bucky doesn’t enjoy being pitied. Bucky feels the unmistakable weight of a piece of Droobles’ chewing gum dropping into his pocket anyway, presumably entirely by accident with an extra helping of plausible deniability. _God bless her._ Bucky makes a mental note to leave her his alcohol stash in his will, because he’s probably not going to make it past today anyway. “You look like you’ve had a rough few hours of it.”

“Yeah, no fucking shit.” There are not _words_ to describe the past few hours, but if Bucky had to choose three to sum it up two would be four letters long and one would be an unintelligible scream. He runs a hand over his face, lightly headbutting Natasha sideways for emphasis. “Even ignoring the whole ‘Steve-entrancing-charm’ thing — thanks for that, by the way — _amortentia,_ Nat.”

“...Not to kick the dog, but if you don’t prepare for amortentia on V-Day, it’s kinda on you.”

“Yeah, whaddya take me for, an idiot? _Steve_ didn’t prepare.” Bucky chances a glance upward; both Steve and Tony have somehow magically muted each other now and are having a very intense quasi-duel using the limited handful of non-verbal spells they know. Tony doesn’t even bother dodging what looks to be a charm to clean silverware, and retaliates by giving Steve a very threatening look and making the tip of his wand bloom into a bouquet of peonies. Tony is dating Pepper and the most interest Steve has ever shown Tony has been an intense desire to launch him into the sun, and Bucky _still_ kinda wants to set the flowers on fire. He doesn’t even have the willpower to _stand_ right now.  “Clint can fill you in later, anyway. I don’t know why I bother telling either of you anything about my personal life.”

“You don’t _have_ a personal life. You have me, Clint, and your practically-married relationship with Steve that is fooling no one.”

“Don’t mock me, woman. I got enough of that from your boyfriend today.” And even now, Bucky doesn’t know if he needs to blame Clint for turning Natasha into a menace or blame Natasha for turning Clint into a menace. Either way, he is going to figure it out someday and one of them will be receiving a strongly worded letter. With a bomb enclosed. “Speaking of, though...I mean, do you know what they were talking about earlier?” And god damn it, he sounds like a kicked puppy, which shouldn’t bother him because it’s probably working to his advantage but _does_ bother him because this is a young adult romcom ‘when-did-I-become-this-kind-of-girl’ question if he ever heard one. Frankly, Bucky wouldn’t be asking at all if it weren’t Natasha Romanoff, trusted confidant and gift to mankind. “Because I can usually tell with Steve — and it’s _not_ a married thing, Nat, geez, it’s a friend thing—”

“—that’d be a lot more convincing if you didn’t look like a kicked puppy and also weren’t just telling me the other day how you want to, quote, ‘slap his stupid, impulsive face about as much as you want to kiss it’—”

“—but whatever was bothering him, I _kinda_ feel like I just messed up somehow with him, and I don’t really know why. I don’t know. He looked angry, anyway.” His eyes follow Steve, like they always do, fucking traitors, but he’s pretty sure he’s right; somehow, the fight with Tony has _relaxed_ Steve from whatever pent-up emotion he was feeling towards Bucky and Natasha earlier. Tony has somehow managed to entirely silently undo the muting charm Steve cast on him and is now gleefully ripping into him; Steve makes a few mildly impolite hand gestures in return, never quite reaching obscene, with a snarky but nevertheless present smile. “Geez, this day’s a fucking roller coaster. One of those fucked up ones from Rollercoaster Tycoon that kills people with g-force or crashes them into the competing theme park or something.”

Natasha’s fingernails stop abruptly from where they’ve been soothingly scratching haphazard patterns into Bucky’s arm; he feels her shoulder shift underneath him as she turns to stare at him. Since he can’t see her expression, he can probably safely assume she’s giving him a very incredulous glare right now and moving purely for effect. “...James.”

 _“What.”_ He’s allowed to sound petulant. The scratching was grounding him to a moment where nothing was imploding, physically or emotionally.

“First off, I’m going to assume ‘Rollercoaster Tycoon’ is a muggle thing, because it sounds like literally nothing. Second, does Steve need to parade in front of you naked with a howler in his hands before you get the message? He’s not _angry_ at you, you idiot. The closest he is to angry is probably at me, and not even that.”

“Wait, you know, too?” Bucky casually ignores the naked dancing bit and instead reels out of her arms quickly, grabbing her face in both hands and shaking her a little for good measure. She looks a little irked and distinctly unimpressed, lips twitching at whatever expression he’s wearing on his face—so yeah, he’s probably pretty obviously bitter about no longer being the resident Steve-whisperer of the group. Sue him. Just Tony knowing what’s bothering Steve? That’s fine. Two people? Who _aren’t_ Bucky? Something’s up. “What is it?”

Natasha opens her mouth incredulously, then closes it, then abruptly sinks into a contemplative thousand-yard stare.  “...If I tell you, it would end seven long years of personal suffering and a very convoluted Schrodinger’s dating scenario.”

“A _what.”_

“But if I tell you _now_ , Loki wins four thousand galleons.”

“He _WHAT._ ”

“...Yeah, no, breaking the wager rules aside, he could take over the world with that kind of money. I can’t tell you.” Natasha suddenly looks just as pained as Bucky’s soul feels on the inside, so at least he’s not entirely alone in suffering on this, the holiest and most soul-crushing of days. “Dammit, I put too much faith in you and Steve. Stupid eleven-year old me and my belief in your mental capabilities.”

“Yeah, she should’ve realized I’m a hot fucking mess.” Bucky deadpans, because even if he has no earthly clue what she’s talking about (a bet of some kind, he’s gathered, he’s not _blind_ ) it’s not like he can call her out on it when honestly, she’s right because he’s been a walking disaster since the moment he entered this world, probably. He’s about to say something else, because this is starting to edge dangerously into Charms Class: Disaster Protocol Step 5, when he’s interrupted by a depressingly familiar flash of purple light that will probably haunt his nightmares from this moment onward.

“ _Fatumora!_ ”

“Tony, you can’t just—this is _not over_ —”

Whatever Steve is about to sputter out is muffled by the sudden cloud of purple smoke that envelops him; Tony pockets his wand, smug and self-satisfied as ever, and Bucky can feel his sanity slowly slipping away because _could Stark not have given him five minute’s warning so he could mentally prepare himself for this_. “Nat, can you just do me a quick favor and gouge my eyes out so I don’t have to watch this shitshow?”

“Reign it in. You’ll live.” Natasha pats him comfortingly on the shoulder before smoothly sliding off the desk, Benedict Arnold, and picking up the camera as Steve fights his way coughing and wheezing from the violently violet cloud. Bucky feels the sudden instinctive urge to find Steve’s inhaler and squirrel him away to the hospital wing, which _not the time_ , but he doesn’t really get the chance to so much as blink or regret everything before Steve’s gaze lands on Tony and he goes a bright, glowing red.

And then Bucky remembers V-Day 2011.

* * *

See, back when Bucky and Steve had been young and relatively innocent ( _pfft_ ) ten year olds, the situation hadn’t really been different. They _themselves_ hadn’t even been too different; sure, they’ve grown a few heads taller since then (or an entire _self_ taller, thanks, growth-spurt Steve), Bucky’s acquired some pretty unnecessary _feelings_ for his best friend, and Steve’s, y’know, figured out that magic is real. For the most part, however, their dynamic has remained entirely the same, except now Bucky can _actually_ curse the people that hurt Steve as opposed to just vividly imagining it in extreme detail. They’d been inseparable back then, too, of course. Heck, they’d practically lived in each other’s pockets. The one and only secret Bucky had kept from Steve (now, of course, there’s also the whole ‘would like to make out’ thing) was that his mother was a witch, and that alone had nearly driven him mad with guilt until they’d ran into each other on the Express and Bucky realized that the foreign boarding school Steve had been tiptoeing around all summer had, in fact, been the same foreign boarding school Bucky had been lamenting since they’d first met each other. They’d cried and hugged, because they had been thinking they wouldn’t see each other except summers for the next seven years. And then Steve had socked him for not trusting him about magic and making him sad, you jerk, to which Bucky had pointed out that he probably would’ve gotten arrested by the wizard council if he had, to which Steve had pointed out that he had risked arrest for Bucky that one time, to which Bucky had reminded him that Steve had promised to never risk arrest for Bucky again, at which point they’d gotten into a very, very familiar argument and then somehow met Tony. In hindsight, that means that conversation had been the last peaceful moment in either of their lives. Bucky kind of wishes he had appreciated it more.

The bottom line is that, for all that every aspect of Steve has been amplified by a factor of ten (and that goes for body mass, stubbornness, lack of self-preservation, and sarcasm), not much has changed in their lives right now. And V-Day is no exception, because while Bucky may not have _known_ why he got heart palpitations every time he was around Steve back in fourth grade—and to be fair, at the time he had good reason to constantly fear for his friend’s life, so it was an easy mistake to make—Steve had still managed to make the day one of the most exasperating, embarrassing days of Bucky’s life.

And _all_ of it was secondhand embarrassment, and _all_ of it was because of Peggy.

Because despite the insane amount of migraines Bucky gets on a daily basis wondering what new and creative ways Steve is going to injure himself, there are still other idiots out there who, like him, carry on being his friend anyway. Here at Hogwarts they’ve assembled their own motley crew, but it’s easy sometimes to forget that half-bloods and muggleborns often spend the first eleven years of their life in the good ol’ fashioned muggle schooling system. For all Steve’s favorite pastime might as well have been ‘finding increasingly improbable ways to get punched by kids twice his size’ and Bucky is an absolute trainwreck who bullshits his way through 90% of life, they’d had _friends._ There’d been Dum Dum and Gabe and Jacques and the Three Different James’s, none of which were _actually_ called James (because, y’know, there were _Three Different James’s_ ), and Bucky’s pretty sure they’d all had normal lives and bright futures before Steve Rogers had arrived and Fucked Shit Up like he fucks all shit up, with the usual amount of bodily harm involved (Steve has an alarming amount of friends who meet him via fistfight). Steve and Bucky had been closest, having grown up in the same neighborhood and seen each other’s diapers or however the saying goes, but their core group had come together fire-forged in the nightmare landscape of Mr. Phillips’ first grade classroom. They’d done stupid kid things, as stupid kids do, and gotten along so well that Bucky and Steve still write them semi-regularly and do stupid kid things with them all over again over their summers off despite being grown-ass men. They’d gone a few more years together and made it to intermediate school, which switched up the class roster and brought them Mr. Erskine, who Bucky thanks the sweet baby Jesus for every day because without Erskine and his Steve-whispering abilities Steve probably would’ve gotten permanent head trauma before Hogwarts. And lo and behold, like an angel descending from the heavens to kick their collective asses into gear, there had been Peggy Carter.

The funny thing is that Peggy, the only British witch Bucky has ever had the pleasure of being friends with, had been dead-set on coming to America and attending Ilvermorny. To this day, he’s still not entirely sure why—last he heard, she had an intricate twelve-step plan to either destroy or improve wizarding society or something, and MACUSA was a better fit for her ideas than the Ministry—but he’s glad for it, because she was the third person that could talk Steve down from doing stupid things, and nine days out of ten Bucky needed the backup because he was and still is a weak, weak man and more often than not just ends up tagging along. She’d been the smartest, sharpest person he’d known and she’d fit into their group insanely well, mainly because without her they would’ve all died, even though _with_ her their potential for disaster exponentially increased because Steve had it _bad_ for her and he was stupid to begin with but love made him a fucking _mess._ Before Peggy Steve had been bad, a force of nature trying desperately to shape the world around him into the way he thought it ought to be (better than it actually was) one motherfucking bully at a time, firm and unflinching in what he knew in his bones was the right thing to do. After Peggy Steve was still bad, but he was also _awkward,_ because his new and confounding feelings threw him for a loop and it was an unfamiliar challenge that he couldn’t fix with a stern speech or a clean fight, and really, she was the first person to ever make Steve aware that that was a thing (although that lesson didn’t stick, which is why Steve still tries to fix many, many problems that way, much to Bucky’s chagrin and eternal torment). As a result, Bucky remembers V-Day 2011 vividly — a day upon which Steve Rogers, 100% certifiable bat out of hell, _bumbled_ and _stuttered_ and _full-body blushed,_ awkwardly bumping into Peggy at strange intervals throughout the day and attempting to achieve the impressive feat of confessing his feelings while also not speaking a single coherent sentence. Steve had been an absolute _menace,_ whining and second-guessing himself and generally acting like the world was perpetually on the brink of disaster (and okay, yes, this is a familiar pattern of behavior he recognizes within himself and Bucky is ashamed) and shooting himself down, only to crawl back to Bucky and make Bucky talk him back up to the point of shooting himself back down, so that by the end of the day Bucky just wished he could stick his hand up Steve’s ass like a puppet and make him say the words so Steve could just _get it over with already._ They’re—okay, they’re not older or wiser, but they’re removed enough from the situation that they can laugh about it now.

Peggy still sends them an owl about it every year, actually, because at this point it should come as no surprise that everyone in Steve’s orbit is an asshole drawn into Bucky’s life purely by the gravitational pull of the Alpha hellraiser at the center of the galaxy. This year, the day before V-Day 2018, the two had received a picture from that day (non-moving, so probably taken by Gabe or one of their other friends) of small-Steve awkwardly stumbling behind small-Peggy like a newborn deer, puppy-eyes impossibly large and starstruck and face so red that (matched with his golden hair) he could’ve replaced the Gryffindor house banner, with small-Bucky in the background wearing a look he recognizes as his ‘for-fuck’s- _sake_ -small-Steven-Rogers’ look. Peggy remains Steve’s first and only crush, as far as Bucky knows; as a result, she remains the first and foremost example of what a painfully obvious fucking _disaster_ Steve is when he has a crush.

Thus, V-Day 2018.

* * *

“I know what’s happening,” Steve somehow grumbles petulantly while simultaneously averting his eyes shyly, and Bucky closes his eyes briefly and tries _very hard_ to imagine his happy place. He is somewhere nice and warm, possibly tropical, with a fruit beverage and a basket of plums. He is wearing swim trunks. It is blissfully quiet. And then he realizes he can’t picture it, because the idea of any world in which his life is quiet is so outside the realm of possibility he can’t feasibly imagine it without being taken out of the experience. That, and when he thinks about whether or not he wants Steve there he gets so caught up on whether or not his happy place can _really_ be his happy place without his best friend but also whether it can _really_ be his happy place with his _asshole_ best friend who can’t stay out of trouble for less than five minutes and also brings up a lot of complicated repressed feelings that in the end he just has to nix the entire operation and yep, Steve is still standing there blushing like a virgin on prom night as he glances over Bucky’s shoulder at Tony and geez, Bucky would really like to go back to the out-of-body mortification he was experiencing earlier because he would give his immortal soul and nonexistent unborn child to get out of jail free right now, immediately.

“I’m sorry, what?” It’s been a long day. It’s not even lunch, but it’s been a _long-ass day._

“I said, I know what’s happening. I know I’m enchanted.” Steve crosses his arms and keeps peeking at Tony, his sky-blue eyes clouded and troubled and _Bucky, stop._

“That’s a pretty impressive amount of self-restraint, if you can make that observation even while charmed.” Bucky grabs for his notebook and jots it down without looking, which means he won’t be able to read it tomorrow but at least gives him something to do. “It’d be nice if you could use that self-restraint more often. Like not getting punched. I think I would appreciate that.”

“In your dreams, jerk.”

“Ah, stuff it, you punk.” _Steve is still a punk,_ Bucky writes accordingly in his notes, and feels a little better about his life. At least the universe is consistent. “Well, as long as you’re coherent, you might as well tell me how the charm has you feeling.”

Except when he looks up, Steve is standing a little straighter, one hand hovering awkwardly halfway up toward his hair, his eyes fixed very solidly on Bucky’s with the desperate look of a man staring down the barrel of a gun. Bucky rolls his eyes very, very hard. “He’s looking over at us, isn’t he.”

 _“Yes,”_ Steve hisses back, mouth barely moving, sounding mortified. Bucky thinks he should probably be feeling more jealous about this, but three months of trying to get this version of Steve to please act like a normal human being and be subtle was frustrating enough that all Bucky can feel inside is dead, dead, dead as a doornail. And that three months happened _seven years ago._ “Christ, he’s gonna know I was looking at _him._ Pretend to make normal conversation with me.”

“Or we could _have_ a normal conversation, and you could tell me how the charm has you feeling.” Bucky waits, and predictably enough, Steve just lets his gaze dart back over toward wherever Tony is standing over Bucky’s shoulder and stays completely silent. Bucky rolls his eyes up toward God, because thanks, God, for putting him in this mess. “...Or we could talk about his dick. Do you want to talk about his dick? Is that what normal red-blooded adults talk about when they crush on people, because if so we’ve kinda missed out on that entire aspect of our friendship—”

“I will give you any amount of money to stop talking about dick,” says Steve, actually giving Bucky a _look_ instead of just staring through him so he doesn’t stare at Tony, and there we go, he sounds a bit more normal, so Bucky pats himself on the back for a job well done. “Our friendship is just fine with two dicks, thank you very much.”

“Three. Your dick, my dick, and you.”

“Hey, hey, I’m not a dick. I’m an _asshole._ You told me so yourself, many, many times.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, gesturing to himself. “Still three dicks, asshole.”

“Since when were our _dick_ dicks involved in our friendship anyway, because if I’d known I would’ve been doing things very differently—”

“ _Dick_ dicks, what are you, five—”

“God, even _now_ you two keep flirting with each _other._ ” And yep, Tony’s elbowing Bucky out of the way and yep, Steve is suddenly doing his best impression of a stone statue, as if standing completely and totally still means Tony won’t see him. If stone statues were dipped in red paint and breathed, and also made high-pitched wheezing sounds when they breathed. “Step aside, Buckboy. You get to do this every other day of the year. I charmed him fair and square, I have _earned_ my share of that sweet, sweet flirtatious banter.”

“Do your worst.” Bucky rolls his eyes and tries to share an exasperated look with Natasha as he hops up on the desk to sit beside her, but Natasha just gives him the eyebrows that say _you’re a complete and utter disaster today, James Barnes, and you don’t deserve my knowing glances_ and honestly, she’s probably right. “You’ll be lucky if you can get him to string two sentences together, let alone get ‘flirtatious banter’.” The sad thing is, it takes him a few minutes before his head shoots up. “And we do _not_ flirtatious banter!”

“Flirtatious _ly_ banter,” Natasha murmurs.

“Well, we don’t do that, either! We do neither!”

“Real convincing.” Tony rolls his eyes, prodding Steve in the cheek; Steve jolts and jerks his face away, staring at him silently with big blue eyes. “Hey, hey, Golden Boy, you with me?”

Steve flinches, eyes darting helplessly and radiating SEND HELP. Nine times out of ten, Bucky is completely powerless to that look. This is not one of those times. “Uh. Y...yeah.”

In the grand scheme of things, Bucky had been trying pretty hard not to think about Tony casting an entrancing enchantment on Steve at all, because Steve being infatuated with Tony even in the context of a prank, while sounding like something Tony would do if he had gotten his hands on entrancing enchantments earlier, still tips the balance of the universe too far in the ‘what-the-fuck’ direction. However, looking back, some deeply masochistic part of Bucky’s subconscious mind had been sort of expecting himself to be a little jealous about having to see Steve be hopelessly enamoured with someone in such close proximity, seeing his friend in love and knowing that he’d never get that sort of attention from him. Some intense pining, perhaps. Maybe he’d bury his head in Natasha’s shoulder. Maybe he’d go full Juliet—Bucky’s been feeling a little dramatic all day, in case you couldn’t tell. What he had _not_ prepared for was to be supremely and utterly exasperated by Steve and his inability to deal with his romantic feelings like a grown up, which honestly might speak to jealousy too in a ‘put-me-out-of-my-misery’ kind of way, but is nevertheless rather different from the dramatic inner monologuing he’d been expecting to get out of the experience. Honestly, he’s a little disappointed. Not in himself, because he is handling this in a much more mature fashion than he was expecting, go him. No, he’s disappointed at Tony, because he was expecting the boy wonder to get a _lot_ more mileage out of this moment.

“I’m warnin’ ya, kid. Don’t get attached to me.” Bucky’s honestly not sure _what_ accent Tony’s going for, but if he’s trying to be Bucky’s grandmother after a migraine and schnapps it’s working wonderfully. The effect is exacerbated by the way he’s put a hand on each of Steve’s cheeks, smushing his face together so hard that he can’t reply. Bucky waits for Steve to slap Tony’s hands away or stop being lead around by the...face...like a particularly pathetic puppy dog, but Steve just stays there, patiently blinking like an _idiot._ Bucky will be the first person to say that Steve is a catch, but he’d forgotten somewhere in the last seven years that Steve in love is also a goddamn _moron._ Tony rambles on, blithely unaware of the extreme moment of internal panic he’s inciting in Steve and the fits of hysteria subsequently being incited in Bucky. “I’ve already got a girl, y’know. Pepper. I ain’t no good for ya.” He clicks his tongue, winks exaggeratedly, and continues on in what Bucky suddenly realizes Tony believes is a halfway passable Brooklyn accent.

“...Should I be offended? I feel like I should be offended.”

“Nah.” Natasha slowly raises the camera, takes a picture. Steve makes an indignant foghorn noise as the flash goes, but he can’t say much with Tony forcing him into a fish-face. “Not when he could be going full Shakespeare.”

“Stay golden, Ponyboy. We’ll always have Paris. Frankly, m’dear, I don’t give a damn.” His eyes light up in a way that makes Bucky immediately want to hit the deck, Pavlovian response style. He really needs less dangerous friends. “Right, Shakespeare! Ahem—‘shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Because I gotta say, you’re smokin’ h—’”

“I could do it.” Bucky’s hands twitch around his wand as he groans, throwing himself back as melodramatically as possible and wincing as his head bashes against the table because yeah, he should’ve expected that. “I could put us both out of our misery. I hear Azkaban is nice this time of year.”

“Sit up and take the damn notes, James.” Natasha rolls her eyes and jabs him in the side because she’s stone fucking cold. “If you still wanna go to jail when this is all over, _then_ I’ll help you assassinate Tony Stark.”

He opens a single eye to peek at her. “And string him up from the quidditch pitch?”

“Just for you.” She brushes some hair out of his face and rolls her eyes, and Bucky makes a mental note to dig some chocolate out for her because it’s Valentine’s Day and she fucking deserves it for putting up with all his bullshit.

“Hey, rude, you two. Steve’s standing right here.” As if for emphasis, Tony flicks Steve in the temple; to his credit, Steve rubs his forehead and glares. It’s almost as if everything is normal, for a second, if normal involved Steve being badly sunburned head to toe and also unable to look at Tony dead-on for more than a few seconds. “Say, I could take advantage of this. How about you let me win our next five arguments?”

“...No.” Steve’s tone is firm, but he has to take a minute to think about it, and the last time Bucky saw Steve seriously consider letting Tony do as he pleased Steve was lying in the hospital wing, five foot nothing and conked out on eight different types of healing potions and a concussion.

Tony schools his face into the world’s most unconvincing impression of Steve’s ‘I’m-disappointed-in-your-life-choices’ look. As with many of Tony’s impressions, he only manages to look vaguely constipated. “Alright...but I’m really sad, Steve. Here I am, offering out the olive branch, hoping we can get along, and here you are grabbing it and smashing it to itty-bitty pieces with your oversized lumberjack hands.” Bucky can’t help but snort out a laugh, especially as the cupids start belting ‘WE COULD HAVE HAD IT AAAAALL’ as loudly as their nonexistent stone vocal chords will allow. “Stuff it, Buckbear. _Smashing_ it. You’re smashing my _heart._ ”

And fuck if Steve doesn’t look absolutely heartbroken for a second, as if disappointing Tony is on par with starting the apocalypse and learning that Santa Claus is secretly a cannibal kidnapper. He looks small—and Steve _never_ looked small, not even when he _was_ small. Bucky feels a stab of real guilt, which is stupid because he didn’t even _do_ anything, so thanks a lot, Stark. He makes a mental note to _not_ feel guilty the next time there’s a Charms class disaster and he ends up accidentally banishing a quidditch trophy into Tony’s groin. As if hearing his mental process, Steve immediately begins apologizing. “I’m really sorry, Tony—”

“Funny, I always assumed Starks had a self-sustaining magical core where their hearts should be.” Natasha just snaps a picture of Steve’s face, looking distinctly unperturbed.

“Tasha, Tasha, Tasha. That’s our _souls._ ”

“Call me that again and I’ll rip your _soul_ out through your anus.”

“Kinky. Before or after you string me from the quidditch pitch?”

_“During.”_

“Tony?” And there it is, that _face,_ the watery ‘I’m-devastated-how-could-you’ face that no one’s mastered quite as well as Steve _._ Bucky is weak even to the _fake_ versions of that face Steve uses to get Bucky to split the last slice of pumpkin pie, let alone to the real thing. He’d castrate Tony Stark to get rid of that face, which he seriously contemplates doing as he glances over and notices that Tony is _ignoring_ it (which really, can only be done if you’re a literal demon who tortures puppies), because worse than any lingering notes of jealousy he might have, worse even than any single moment so far from Bucky’s shitty, shitty day from literal hell, is the idea that Steve might be genuinely _hurt_ by anything, ever. He considers blasting Tony out the window, retribution from Pepper be damned, but luckily for his own bodily safety there’s a much easier fix. He pulls out his wand.

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

He regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth, because Tony and Natasha’s heads whip around so quickly with such equally wide smirks that he has to wonder for a second whether demonic robots have overtaken the world, and then whether his friends orchestrated the whole thing just to bait him into this exact scenario. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve gone _soft.”_

“I’ve always _been_ soft.” To Steve. There’s really no use in denying it to Natasha, not when he’s in the Slytherin common room every other day bitching about his feelings like a swooning Victorian maiden (if swooning Victorian maidens swore like sailors). He doesn’t know why she bothers putting up with him, but he needs the outlet; Clint and Natasha are the only people he’s told (and _when_ and _how_ did Tony figure it out, because clearly Bucky needs to update his murder list), and of the two, Natasha is the only one who won’t store it and save it and hold it over his head for the next five hundred years until he is dead and buried and then chisel it into his goddamn gravestone.

Okay, so she probably will. But she’ll be the most subtle about it.

“Yeah, no, this isn’t _soft._ This is, like, throwing yourself under the Knight Bus.” Tony gives him an exceedingly dangerous look, holding open his hand and smiling toothily when Natasha slaps the camera into it. “You know what comes next, right?”

“What comes...”

“Mr. Barnes, Mr. Stark, Ms. Romanoff.” Flitwick’s high, clear voice rings out from _right the fuck behind him,_ are all his professors trying to sneak up on him and give him heart attacks today or is this Bucky’s fault for being constantly distracted by the gnawing feeling of impending doom? Quick as a wink, the camera’s changed hands again and Natasha’s stuffed it down the front of her robes, which honestly, effective but _come on._ “Ah, I see you’ve taken my words to heart and undone the charm on Mr. Rogers. Splendid, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, well, you know me. Magical responsibility and all that.” Tony waves his hand, not even bothering to _try_ and look innocent. “Now, if you ask _me,_ my miraculous self-restraint deserves some house points—”

“You don’t get points for _not_ imploding Hogwarts, Stark.” Bucky’s not a _total_ asshole.

“Not unless I do, also.” Natasha is, apparently.

“...Right, that. In which case I’d like some too, actually.” And okay, so he’s a little bit of one. Blame it on the fact that Steve’s still recovering from the enchantment, which means that for a volatile few seconds their moral center has been removed and replaced by the pure force of chaos that is Tony. Flitwick looks between them, expression becoming increasingly alarmed (and also, somehow, increasingly resigned, which okay, kinda makes Bucky feel bad about piling on), before Steve finally manages to pull himself upright with a cough and a very familiar glare.

“Guys. Stop bullying the professor.”

“Ah, Mr. Rogers!” Flitwick claps him comfortingly on the arm, looking relieved. “I don’t suppose you’d like to demonstrate the charm for me?” His gaze lands immediately on Bucky, who’s closest, and his eyes fucking _twinkle,_ and Bucky suddenly gets a sinking feeling because Slughorn’s eyes were _twinkling_ too and if he didn’t know better he’d say the professors of Hogwarts might be part of some conspiracy to make his day a living, breathing nightmare. But he knows better, so he knows they _definitely_ are. “How about on Mr. Barnes?”

“...Guys.” Steve’s expression is pinched. “Stop the professor from bullying me.”

“Or go back to bullying the professor,” Bucky mutters under his breath, in a tone he doesn’t even bother trying to hide because honestly, he’s been through enough, he needs this. Flitwick doesn’t even look _bothered_ when Bucky says it, which makes a small part of Bucky’s mind stir suspiciously, but that’s hardly the main priority when his crowning moment of embarrassment is about to be _witnessed by his literal professor._ This is the man who will _write recommendation letters for him,_ about to witness the moment he either throws all his dignity out the window or throws _himself_ out the window to avoid throwing all his dignity out the window.

Tony and Natasha glance at each other and simultaneously decide to be absolute dicks, because Tony just reaches for a pen and paper to take notes and Natasha fishes around in her cleavage and yanks the camera back into existence without even bothering to be subtle. “Funny you should say that, Professor, because Steve was _just_ about to get to that!” Tony sweeps his arm out with a flourish; Steve stares at him intently, as if trying to gag Tony and maybe also murder him through sheer willpower and his eyes. For some reason his blush is still lingering even after the enchantment’s been lifted, which is probably a side-effect Bucky would write down in the notes he’s supposed to be taking for Steve if he weren’t, you know, reasonably sure the paper would catch on fire when he approached it because he’s about to _combust._

“...Uh.” Steve glances over at Flitwick, who gestures at him to go on, and then turns to face Bucky. The common expression would be to say that Steve looks as uncomfortable as Bucky feels, except Bucky _feels_ like his insides are slowly being liquified and bleeding out through his eyeballs (or, y’know, like he’s about to get an _entrancing enchantment_ cast on him by his _best friend_ who he’s _kinda in love with)_ and there’s no way on Earth Steve or any other human being could possibly look that uncomfortable. He does look a little frazzled, though, probably because he’s about to have to cast an _entrancing enchantment_ on his _best friend,_ and let it never be said that Bucky doesn’t try to do right by Steve.

“C’mon then, Steve. I don’t bite.” He spreads his arms and grins as charmingly as he can while feeling like he’s actively dying (and he’s pretty damn good at it, if he does say so himself). “...At least, I don’t _think_ I bite.” He pretends to mull it over. “Then again, maybe I’ll turn out like Natasha. Who knows?”

“I think I can handle it,” Steve snarks back, but he still looks a bit doubtful as he raises his wand. Bucky braces himself, squeezing his eyelids together. _“F_ — _Fatumora.”_

...And there’s nothing. For a second, extreme resignation washes over him as he realizes that ‘yep, it’s one of those things where the spell can’t hurt you if you’re _already infatuated’_ and he takes a deep breath, racking his brains on the best, most sickening way to fawn over his best friend because hey, wouldn’t it be suspicious if Bucky wasn’t affected at all and if he’s gotta commit then at least he can have some fun with it. Then he opens his eyes and realizes there’s no purple smoke. Instead, there is Steve meeting his gaze dead-on with the ‘play-along-and-I’ll-save-both-our-asses’ stare. Bucky really wishes they’d worked on blinking in morse code or something as children, because while they’re remarkably good at reading each other’s looks, he could really do with some more information before he almost accidentally makes a total _ass_ out of himself by pretending to be infatuated over a nonexistent charm.

“Huh. Nothing happened.” Steve furrows his brow, surprisingly convincing. It’s not _technically_ a lie, of course, but it is a good way of dancing around what Bucky’s guessing is the fact that Steve messed up the spell on purpose. Bucky sneaks a look over at Tony and Natasha, who look distinctly unimpressed and are buying literally 0% of it. If this were any other situation, Bucky would be begging Natasha to create some sort of distraction and help him get the fuck out, but she is very clearly _not on his side_ for this. Traitor. “I guess I should try a few more times, for now—”

“If I may, Mr. Rogers.” Flitwick pulls out his own wand, smiling. Smiling _innocently,_ Bucky realizes, but not subtly; he’s seen the look on Tony’s face often enough to feel dread crawl over him when he realizes that Flitwick _knows_ , and Flitwick is not planning on letting them get away with it. “Let me walk you through it—it’s a simple enough mistake, flicking your wand at too loose an angle. You’re usually rather precise with your movements, so I’m sure you should have the problem fixed in no time.” He raises an eyebrow, silently challenging.

Steve gives him a wide-eyed, harrowed look that Bucky only ever sees when they are _deep in the shit,_ and Bucky widens his eyes and stops blinking and gives him a stony glare that he tries to channel from deep down with all the incredulity of _did you FUCKING FORGET that our professor is RIGHT BESIDE YOU, aren’t you supposed to be GOOD AT PLANNING, you are a QUIDDITCH CAPTAIN_ and also maybe a little of _keep purposely messing up and playing the fuck along, there’s only so many minutes left in class and if they call you out just deny, deny, deny_ with a dash of _alright, so you’re shitty at lying and don’t like deceiving authority without good cause, but dammit, is the last iota of self respect I have left not a good enough cause for you?!_

Either Bucky’s glaring has gotten a lot less effective (and to be fair, he was pretty much trying to cram an entire manifesto in there) or Steve decides that no, as a matter of fact, sparing Bucky from a slow-moving death via extreme mortification is not worth lying to their professor for the next quarter-hour, because he gives Bucky his most pitiful ‘I’m-sorry-and-will-probably-blame-myself-more-than-you-could-possibly-blame-me’ look, complete with twist of the mouth, and nods before lifting his wand again. It occurs to Bucky then, quite suddenly and a little like the rest of his life flashing before his eyes, that this might actually _not_ end with him having to fake-fawn over Steve while being completely unaffected and instead end with him _confessing_ his feelings in the middle of a spell-induced haze, which haha, fuck, _nope,_ and he opens his mouth to make an excuse and hide in his room for the rest of the day or, alternatively, hex himself so he is physically incapable of (and therefore does not have to deal with) functioning for the rest of his _life_ —

_“Fatumora.”_

* * *

  _Damn,_ is it warm.

“—ky? C’mon, open your eyes already, I said I was sorry. Should we take him to the hospital wing?”

“Nah, Flitwick said he’d be fine. Although I’d pay good money to see you carry him all the way up there, bridal-style—”

“Tony, it’s not _like that_ — _”_

“What, you saying you wouldn’t do it?”

 _“Shut up._ Natasha, _shut him up.”_

“Mm, no, I’m with Stark on this one.”

“For goodness sake, I’m surrounded by—wait. Bucky. Bucky?”

Bucky’s comfortable where he is. There’s a solid weight he’s leaning against, pressed against the entire length of his right side and radiating a heat that sinks down to his bones, melting him so he’s boneless and lazy and really, _really_ doesn’t want to move, because why would he move when he could just lie here forever and not have to worry about _life_ or _things?_ He’s pretty sure he worries too much about _things_ , usually. Those things are dumb, Bucky decides, making the executive decision to keep his eyes shut. Those things can go fuck right off, because Bucky’s going to stay here instead, where everything is warm and slow and perfect.

Huh. He’s pretty sure he’s got someone’s robes in his mouth.

“Can confirm, Sleeping Beauty is back online.” The voice is Tony, Bucky realizes, speaking from somewhere behind him, but he can’t be bothered to move from where he is to try to see and confirm. Besides, the voice sounds like it’s coming from pretty far away, filtered through the golden haze in his head, and probably doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He feels like he’s just woken up by the window in the common room, relaxed and comfortable after taking a nap in sunlight; everything’s a little fuzzy and warm and doing stupid things like _moving_ or _interacting with human life_ doesn’t seem worth the effort. He kinda wants to drift off, take Sleeping Beauty back offline or whatever. He probably would, if Tony’s wand didn’t poke the back of his head, and he frowns and burrows a little deeper into the softness and warmth on his right, because _ow._ “Holy shit. I’m a babbler, Steve’s a blusher, Tasha’s a fighter—”

“What did I _say_ about that name — ” Is that Natasha? Bucky sighs a little, relieved, because Natasha won’t do stupid shit like poke him or try to make him get up and adult, Natasha will understand. She’s nice, that woman. Puts up with too much of his shit. Bucky thinks he should get her something nice, although he probably thinks that pretty often too. He should _do_ it, though. He’ll do it as soon as he gets up. Which is never, hopefully.

“—but Tall, Dark, and Murderous? A _cuddler?_ I’m glad we didn’t take bets, because I would’ve lost a fortune. Something to look forward to, huh, Rogers?”

“Shut _up,_ Tony.” And that’s Steve’s voice, low and resolute right by his ear, and Bucky feels himself go limp and soft; the weight on his side rumbles under him in time and Bucky lets the feeling roll through him, lets it shake a quiet hum out of his lungs in answer. The warmth — _Steve’s_ warmth, Bucky realizes, he’s probably leaning against Steve — blooms through him, sinking slowly through his bones, because of course he’s here. His best pal, his closest friend, as reliable as the sun rising every morning. Christ, Bucky’s lucky to have him. He gets so caught up in his _things_ sometimes that he really doesn’t take enough time to just appreciate it, sometimes, that Steve is with him. That he’s _Steve’s_ best friend, that Steve likes him best, and really, that’s kinda enough for Bucky. He should really fix his  _things,_ focus on this more, because the very thought makes his face stretch in a smile and nudge his nose a little further into that warmth, digging for purchase and rubbing his face against the pleasantly scratchy fabric of Steve’s robes. He finally gets somewhere, somewhere where he breathes in and smells nothing but soap and laundry detergent, and his mind goes completely and totally silent. Ha. Take that, stupid thoughts.

“Oh my God. He’s _nuzzling_ him. He’s _sniffing his neck._ _Please tell me you’re taking pictures.”_

“Nooooo, the camera in my hands is going off on its own. _Yes,_ I’m taking pictures, and _no,_ I don’t need you to narrate it for me.” Yeah, now that she mentions it, Bucky can hear what sounds like camera shutters. That, and soft, sweet music—there’s a chorus singing a song Bucky recognizes, but he can’t be bothered to pick it out right now, not when it’s lulling him right back into a stupor. Natasha’s voice keeps going, somewhere very far away. “Is everything alright, Rogers?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words, instead making a strangled noise that Bucky feels more than hears, and Bucky frowns because that means that Steve is _not_ alright, and sure, everything feels pretty good right now, but how can Bucky be okay if Steve isn’t okay? He turns his head a little so he can glance upward (although why the fuck would he take it off the shoulder, it’s _comfortable)_ and struggles to open his eyes halfway, peeking up through the dark film of his own eyelashes. He can only catch a glimpse of Steve’s jaw from there, but it’s bright red. Okay, not normal, but not hurt. It doesn’t seem pressing enough that Bucky has to move or anything, so he doesn’t, because _why would he,_ instead opting to let his eyes flutter back shut. His tongue feels heavy, and it takes a while for him to dig his voice out of wherever it’s curled up and gone rough and sleepy in his throat. “You okay, Stevie?”

The camera goes off. Tony snickers. Steve meeps.

That last one is enough to jolt Bucky out of it a little, because if something’s _that_ wrong, he should really be paying a little more attention. And he _tries,_ opening his eyes and clawing a little closer to the realm of reality, distantly aware now of his surroundings. He’s still in the Charms classroom. Tony’s somewhere behind him, judging from his voice. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning heavily against Steve — and now that he thinks about it his right hand is falling asleep a little, wedged beside between Steve’s arm and his own body, and his legs are numb from where they’re squished uncomfortably against Steve’s. Natasha’s right in front of him, camera inches from his face, which makes him have to stop and blink a bit, because he really _did not notice._ He’s probably enchanted, too — entrancing charms, right, but hey, he’s not hurt or anything. None of that explains why Steve’s not okay, though, and Bucky can’t fix things if he doesn’t know what’s wrong. He feels himself pout, considers asking Natasha what’s wrong, because Natasha is smart and usually knows what’s what, but decides against it. Whatever it is can hardly be too important, anyway, not when things are so comfortable and no one else seems worried. Still, he slowly works the stiffness out of his right hand and clumsily forces it forward so he can tangle his fingers with Steve’s and squeeze comfortingly, just in case, and also maybe a little because holding hands seems like a _great_ idea right now, they really aren’t touching enough. It makes him feel better, anyway, so why wouldn’t it make Steve feel better too?

“Are they...hang on.” Tony’s there now, peering into his eyes. There’s a little grey angel on his shoulder—one of the stone cupids, Bucky remembers now—still singing the song he heard earlier. “Oh my God. _Look at this._ The Buck Rogers Family Portrait. I think my heart’s growing three sizes.”

“Tony.” Bucky actually has to take his head off Steve’s shoulder this time, because the strained tone of Steve’s voice sends a chill cutting through the warmth pulsing through him. “Take your stupid notes so I can reverse the _damn_ spell.”

And that’s really, _really_ not good, because Steve doesn’t swear like this, not angry, unless something’s really wrong. And nothing’s wrong right now, not that Bucky can see — as a matter of fact, things are far _less_ wrong than they usually are, pressed up as they are against each other sharing body heat, and Steve needs to either tell Bucky what’s wrong so Bucky can fix it and go back to enjoying their close proximity or get with the program and stop worrying about _things_ for a little while too. Steve’s a holy terror, Bucky thinks fondly, but surely he can stop for a few seconds and relax. And it really is _so_ nice right now. He wraps his other arm around Steve’s bicep, turning so his body is facing Steve’s and pulling to get his attention, but his voice struggles again, his mouth still feeling a little like cotton. “Steve.”

He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut, and looks at Steve properly for the first time since waking up. It takes a little while for things to come into focus—face red, forehead pinched, mouth titled in a frown, blue-eyes swimming with concern—but when they do, Bucky can’t help but smile. Yeah, that’s him, slightly pissed, slightly worried, same as always; that’s his Steve. And if the feeling doesn’t well up in him suddenly; geez, does Bucky love this stupid man and his stupid face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Buck.” And Bucky thinks he should probably be a little embarrassed, how weak he goes when Steve says his name, but whatever. He is very actively trying not to worry about anything right now, which means ignoring Tony’s hushed whispering and Natasha’s camera. “Ignore Tony. Go back to...uh, whatever you were doing.”

“Oh, you _wish_ , ‘Stevie’—”

“Tony, I swear to _holy God_ — _”_

“There, see.” Bucky lifts his hand slowly, struggling, and taps Steve right in the side of his frowning mouth, thumb lingering a little over his lip; Steve stops halfway through his sentence and whips his head around to face him so fast that Bucky has to stop and think, process the fact that time passed. “Can’t lie to me, sweetheart, I see right through you. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“...Did he just.”

“Yeah.”

_“God bless America.”_

“Yeah.”

Tony and Natasha keep talking, but its kind of hard to focus on when Steve’s looking at him like that, a little awestruck, staring as if Bucky’d just planted one on him (and isn’t _that_ a thought, and not a bad one, either). The moment passes, though, and Steve’s face relaxes into a strained smile. Bucky frowns in response, because he knows the smile, and it really doesn’t belong here, where life is _great._ “It’s nothing, Bucky, honest; don’t worry yourself about it.”

And honestly, Steve’s an _idiot,_ because that’s a stupid thing to say. He moves his hand so it’s cupping Steve’s cheek, feels his own eyebrows pinch and his eyes darken as his mouth moves into a scowl. Steve falters a little, stuttering and going brighter red, but he still doesn’t tell Bucky what’s wrong, and Bucky feels a little more of the warmth fade from him, because now he’s worrying again. “You’re an idiot,” Bucky says, out loud this time because it warrants saying at this point, and his hand tightens a little on Steve’s cheek so it’s just this edge of painful. “Telling me not to worry. Stupid punk. ‘Course I worry, I gotta worry enough for the both of us.” Because Steve doesn’t worry enough for himself, and he wouldn’t be Steve without it, and Bucky loves him for it, but it’s gonna send him to an early grave. He pokes Steve in the cheek for good measure and huffs, because for some reason Steve’s eyes are lighting up and he’s starting to smile and really, he was worried a _second_ ago, and now he’s stopped right when _Bucky’s_ getting worried, and why couldn’t Steve had just been like this earlier? “Too damn nice for your own good. You have no idea _how much_ I worry about you and your stupid ass.” Not that he can stay angry for long, not when Steve’s still looking at him like the sun’s shining out of his ass, smile big and broad, cheek smooth beneath Bucky’s palm. Bucky can feel his own smile curling on his face, and the warmth is back, spreading through him like butter on toast. The feeling builds up in him again, bright and burning under Steve’s sunny grin, and there’s nothing to worry about, so he opens his mouth to say it. “Christ, though, if I don’t lo—”

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

* * *

 Bucky is going to kill Natasha Romanoff. He is going to find her, and torture her, and kill her forever, _please._ He will do it as soon as he gets off the ground, except he is never getting off the ground because he is going to lie here until he _dies,_ surrounded by Tony fucking Stark’s _fucking_ cupids who are _still_ singing what Bucky now recognizes as Etta James’s ‘At Last’. _At fucking Last._ There he was, crawling Steve fucking Rogers like a _fucking_ tree, while fucking _cupids_ sang At _fucking_ Last. It’s a miracle he’s still alive, honestly, and that some subconscious part of his brain didn’t take mercy and just _bite the bullet_ the moment he opened his mouth after that _fucking_ enchantment hit, but maybe it’s a good thing that he’s alive because he’s pretty sure he’s going to _literal hell_ for all the things he just did. It was a good ride, Bucky thinks to himself miserably, refusing to open his eyes and fully accept the reality of his situation. They had a good run, but it’s over. His dignity is officially gone, having chosen to abandon Bucky in favor of absconding via his nostrils and burying itself _straight into Steve Rogers’ fucking neck._

He thinks about it a little and decides that maybe Clint will take pity and off him. The curse isn’t Unforgivable if he preemptively forgives him in writing, right?

“Up, James.” He feels a foot in his rib and groans, loudly, because he always knew Natasha Romanoff was secretly Beelzebub come to Earth to torment humankind, and he is going to _kill_ her, fucking hell, and then he is going to off himself, goodbye cruel world, and then his ghost is going to haunt her ghost until ghost apocalypse happens and he can finally disappear and feel nothing anymore, amen. “I know you can hear me. Class is ending, for your information.”

“Fuck off.” Did he promise her nice things while he was enchanted? He takes it all back, and then some. She deserves _nothing._ Bucky wonders if it’s petty to give Clint antlers for the rest of the week, then decides that it doesn’t matter because he has no dignity now which means he has nothing left to lose and he’s doing it anyway. “Why. Why did you claim Stark. Why did you make it so Steve would enchant me.” He opens one eye to glare at her, and regrets it, because conveying his disappointment to her properly was _not_ worth having to face the reality of Steve, a few feet away, packing his bags and looking so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even notice when Tony goes from mocking him to reciting the dictionary in alphabetical order (as Tony sometimes does to make sure people aren’t just tuning him out). His voice comes out as a whine, which would mortify him, normally, except right, he has _no more dignity so he doesn’t fucking care._ “You knew I liked him. You knew this might happen. _Whyyyyyy.”_

“Merlin’s beard, you’re both blind.” Natasha rolls her eyes, because she’s a stone-cold killer, and tosses his bag straight into his stomach. Bucky lets it force the air out of him with an _oof,_ then keeps lying there on the floor because it’s a free country and it’s his goddamn right. “Acting like the world is ending will not make the world end faster. Now get up, it’s Valentine’s lunch and I want to get to the chocolate fountain before the first years mess it up.”

“I hate you.” He gets up and immediately regrets it. It was not worth it. Nothing will be worth the shame of living in this world ever again. “I hate everything.”

“You love me.” Natasha ruffles his hair, which he doesn’t fight, but he _does_ glower as much as he can given how dead inside he has decided to be for the rest of forever. “And you love Steve. You’re welcome, by the way, for unenchanting you before _that_ sequence of words came out of your mouth.”

“...Thanks.” Bucky mutters under his breath, although he’s not sure how much he means it considering she got him _into_ this mess in the first place. He takes the piece of gum she gave him earlier out of his pocket, pops it into his mouth, and chews. Somehow, the vicious teeth gnashing is cathartic enough to make him feel a little better. It might have something to do with how he pictures crushing her skull between his molars. “Now shut up and let’s go get your chocolate.”

“Chocolate? Did I hear chocolate?” Tony pops up behind Bucky, which no longer surprises him because given how much of a literal disaster this day has become nothing can surprise him ever again. “Are we talking about the chocolate fountain? Because boy, oh boy, do I have some _ideas_ for the chocolate fountain. So picture this: Pepper enters the Great Hall, and—”

“Okay, we bet on making McGonagall mad, not provoking her into getting sent to Azkaban. I _like_ my Head of House, thank you very much. I try _not_ to drive her insane.” Steve shakes his head and hitches his bag further up on his shoulder, face slowly fading back to its normal color. Bucky does not look him in the eye, because if he looks Steve Rogers in the eye ever again he might have to go sacrifice himself to the Giant Squid, and he would like to at least get some revenge and kick Natasha’s ass in quidditch next week before he goes.

“Hey! I don’t drive Flitwick _insane!”_

“You do,” mutters Flitwick as he brushes by them on his way to lunch. “Goodbye, Mr. Barnes, Mr. Rogers, Ms. Romanoff.” He smiles, and he smiles with _teeth._ Yep, definitely a faculty-wide conspiracy against him today. “I do hope you can put what you learned today to good use.”

Bucky feels his eyebrows narrow as his subconscious mind yells at him, because putting _entrancing enchantments_ to good use? Because that _is_ the only thing they learned today...

“I’ll see to it personally, sir.” Natasha smiles devilishly, nodding her head and waving him out the door. Flitwick beams at her, which makes Tony pout a little because Tony _is_ the only one of them in Ravenclaw house, and dashes out the door (hopefully to Tony-proof the fountain before they get there). “C’mon, Stark, let’s get down to the hall before Flitwick does.”

“Ooh, I _like_ this development. Lead the way, then. You and me, Red, we’re an unstoppable force of chaos...”

“Uh.. _should_ we stop them?” Bucky feels like they should. In fact, he’d probably be actively doing it, if he weren’t still very consciously out of fucks to give and oh fuck, Natasha left him alone with Steve.

Steve, who is now pretty obviously _not_ doing his usual thing and chasing Natasha and Tony and attempting to stop them from potentially rigging the chocolate fountain in the Great Hall to rain on the students or spurt champagne or whatever other hellish plan they have, and is instead wringing his hands and turning an interesting shade of red and refusing to meet Bucky’s eyes. Bucky has extreme momentary deja vu, both to Tony’s entrancing enchantment and to V-Day 2011, and restrains himself (with difficulty, because again, _no fucks to give)_ from slapping his best friend and telling him to spit it the fuck out already, as he’s wont to do when Steve _usually_ wears that expression. He does, however, tap the side of Steve’s temple so Steve yelps and whips his head around. “I can hear you thinking, you know. Go on, out with it.”

“I...shit.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily and ducking his head (and yeah, it’s stupidly endearing and his hair looks nice and _for the love of fuck, why is he like this_ ). When he lifts it again he’s smiling self-consciously, his face still bright red, but at least he meets Bucky’s fucking eyes, so y’know, progress. “Look, I’m sorry if I did anything weird while you were entranced or whatever. I just wasn’t really sure how to handle it, y’know?” And he rubs the back of his neck, all blonde and blue-eyed and _all-American_ or whatever, and Bucky has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from being an _idiot,_ because apparently the last remaining fuck that has clung to his soul through literal hell is the absolute certainty that he cannot let Steve know about his feelings, ever, on pain of death (and sadly enough that might not even be true anymore). “I just don’t wanna make it...weird, or whatever.”

 _“You’re_ sorry.” Bucky feels hysteria wash over him, the type that can only come from experiencing true, soul-crushing humiliation to the point where he reaches some sort of intermediate _stress nirvana_ where everything is terrible and will end his social life and therefore _everything_ is meaningless and funny in an ‘I’ve entered the Twilight Zone’ way. “You _don’t wanna make it weird._ Steve, I’m still not entirely sure I _remember_ what I did. And I don’t know if it’s because of the spell or because it was so bad I had to _remove it from my mind.”_ Bucky shakes his head and sighs, slinging an arm over Steve’s shoulder in a familiar motion and trying very hard not to think ‘hey, this is the shoulder I was breathing into a half an hour ago’. Needless to say, it doesn’t work very well. “So if you don’t wanna make it weird, _stop making it weird.”_ He pokes his friend’s red cheek in emphasis. “You’re acting like you got caught in the confessional or something. I wasn’t _that_ awful, was I?” The sad thing is, he kinda really wants to know the answer to that last question, because if it really _was_ that awful Bucky might have to do something drastic like enter witness protection or backflip off the astronomy tower to save face.

Thankfully, Steve just shoots him his most deadpan look and shakes his head, ducking out from under Bucky’s arm. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point, you asshole.” He smirks at him, the last of the red leaving his cheeks, and Bucky feels himself try to feel simultaneously glad and sad about it and resists the urge to turn right the fuck around and go back to his bedroom and sleep for the next seventy years.

“I thought we established _you’re_ the asshole and I’m the dick.”

Steve gives him a pained look. “Please tell me this is not our new ‘punk-jerk’ dynamic. I don’t think my sense of dignity could stand it. At least not in front of Tony.”

And Bucky has to laugh at that one, because what fucking dignity, Rogers, _there is no dignity here._ “Whatever you say, punk. Now hurry up. I don’t wanna be late to lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: let's write a short stucky thing to tide yourself over before you start working on your project  
> me, months later: I'M MAKING THIS CHAPTER FORTY PAGES LONG,,,AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME
> 
> seriously, the entire fic was eighteen pages before i got here. now it's fifty-seven. this chapter is. forty pages. FORTY.
> 
> reeeeeeee
> 
> had to make up a spell for the entrancing enchantment. hope it wasn't too terrible lol.
> 
> please, please, please leave a comment or a kudos? or both? because i spent far too much time on this :')


	4. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Knock ‘em dead, Buckitty!” Tony calls as the door slams behind them.
> 
> And yeah, why not. Bucky kinda wants to knock himself dead, right then and there.

“You called him _sweetheart!”_ Clint cackles loudly from across the room.

Bucky immediately stops, turns around, and exits the Great Hall.

He comes back in a few minutes later, obviously, because he’s hungry and his pride isn’t more important than lunch, partially because he doesn’t have any pride _left,_ because Bucky had envisioned this day going about ten different ways and this is pretty damn close to the worst case scenario. Provided a dark wizard overlord doesn’t come storming in next period and attempt to take over the world, murdering him and everyone he loves, this will have gone the _worst possible way it could have gone._ And Bucky’s reconsidering the scale, because he thinks he’d rather get Avada Kedavra’d than have to face another two class periods of V-Day bullshit.

“I mean _honestly,”_ Clint’s saying as Bucky drops his bag on the floor and kicks it under the table, collapsing into his usual seat. He’s currently shoving a piece of paper at Sam across the table, glee written all over his face; Steve shoots Bucky a mournfully sympathetic look from where he’s seated by Sam. “I don’t think I can ever look at him the same way again. I thought you were _dangerous,_ Barnes, _dangerous_ _—_ _”_

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Curled up against Steve’s side, rubbing your face into his neck—”

“What the _literal fuck,_ Natasha!” Bucky jams his hand into his pocket for his wand, barely managing to extract it before bashing his hand against the bottom of the table because nothing can go right for him. In the precious few seconds it takes to cuss out life in general, Sam’s already reached over and gotten a good look at what is no doubt some pretty damning photographic evidence. Bucky will _never_ be able to cultivate his charming but dangerous bad-boy reputation again. He’s starting to doubt he ever had it to begin with. “Fucking— _Incendio,_ dammit, _fucking ow,_ already?”

“Tell me you weren’t purring.” Bucky gives Clint the side-eye, because his expression looks like he wants to hear the literal opposite. Across the table, Sam casually puts out the flaming photograph with a stream of water. Bucky still can't see the picture properly from his angle, which thank goodness, because if he had his way he'd be in deep denial about it even existing. “Please. _Tell me.”_

The sad truth of the matter is that Bucky _doesn’t know,_ it _sounds like something he would have done at the time,_ and he wonders for a second when, why, and how  _this_ became his life. He looks dubiously over to Steve for confirmation, but Steve is currently of no help, getting tag-team heckled by Sam and Tony, and Bucky would feel a little worse about that if Clint didn’t catch the flickering glance. “Oh my God. You _don’t know._ You really _might have.”_ And really, why the _fuck_ does he look so happy about it, isn’t he supposed to be Bucky’s friend? Between Natasha taking the photographs and Clint distributing them, Bucky’s beginning to suspect that he _has_ no friends, only assholes who get enjoyment out of viewing and documenting his emotional suffering like a particularly sadistic Truman Show. “My bunkmate’s a _cat.”_ His eyes light up. _“Buck-at.”_

Bucky growls low in his throat, fully prepared to hex Clint into the next century, before Clint laughs _louder_ and he realizes that hey, maybe the animal noises aren’t really helping his case. He stops his hackles from rising with extreme difficulty, which _oh God,_ maybe Clint’s right, not that he can ever know it. _“Fucking Christ_ _—_ _”_

“Sounds too much like ‘bucket,’” Bruce mutters quietly from two seats away, cutting up a potato cake in quick, neat motions and _refusing to meet his eyes._ Bucky turns slowly and deliberately, leveling the full force of his glare at him because really, _et tu, Bruce,_ but clearly he’s already lost any street cred he had because Bruce just continues eating like he hasn’t taken a sledgehammer to Bucky’s self-esteem. “Cat’s too dignified, anyway.” He chews on his food, lips twitching in barely concealed amusement. “Kitty. Buck-itty.”

Even _Bruce._ Christ, he’s fucked. Bucky drops his head to the table with a groan, one-hit KO’d by how calmly analytical the most collected member of his friend group is as he christens him in the worst way possible. He is never going to be able to get rid of this nickname. _Never._ It will haunt him through his future and stop him from finding a dignified career, and then it will be on his gravestone and stop him from getting through the gates of heaven.

“So what's the next stop on your tour of shame, Buckitty?” Clint, ever oblivious to the slow-moving mental breakdown Bucky’s experiencing, summons a heart-shaped cupcake over from the other side of the table and tucks in around his continued laughter.

“Divination.” Steve’s the one who answers, which makes Bucky grit his teeth because they are _not_ a married couple but this is _really not_ helping their case. This is confirmed by Clint, who takes the opportunity to kick him so energetically in the knee that Bucky is going to feel it for the next week. “We’ve both got it.”

“Right, you and your pseudomagic.” Tony crams himself crudely into the conversation as he spits around a mouthful of chocolate, rolling his eyes and generally making life worse, as only Tony can. “I get it’s a family thing for you, Buckitty—”

 _“Can I not catch a break_ _—_ _”_

“—but I thought Stevie Wonder over here had more sense than that.”

 _“Don’t call me Stevie.”_ And really, Bucky would probably be a little more concerned about Steve picking unnecessary fights with mutual friends if he didn’t feel a flare of distinctly un-platonic possessiveness somewhere in his soul. His soul, which is probably going to hell for that very feeling.

“Buckitty—”

“Christ!” It is _never_ going away.

“—calls you Stevie all the time. Why then, oh why can’t I?”

“For one, Stevie Wonder’s a national treasure and ten times the man Rogers can ever hope to be.” Clint simultaneously gulps down an entire slice of pizza whole and elbows Bucky hard in the shoulder for emphasis, because eating pizza and bringing Bucky pain are the two things in life that bring him the most joy. “For another, Bucket over here’ll get jealous.”

Sadly enough, Bucky would take being called ‘Bucket’ for the rest of his life than being called ‘Buckitty’ one more time, partially because he’s reached a point where he’s actually starting to worry about the accuracy of being compared to a touch-starved feline. “I am _not_ jealous,” he says, sounding jealous. _Fucking Christ._ After holding it together for literal years, it seems like his poker face has finally had enough of the past two hours of literal torture and decided to very suddenly quit on him, leaving him to fend for himself. He doesn’t blame it. He’d quit his life himself, if it were an option. “And divination is _not_ a pseudomagic, dammit. My ma’s a Seer—”

“—and so’s Bucky. It runs in their family’s blood, all the way back to Romania and the Romani people.” And is it just Bucky’s pathetic, 100% done mind, or does Steve sound proud? Either way, it makes a smile bloom on Bucky’s face, because apparently every single part of him has decided to rebel against his survival instincts today in an effort to embarrass him as much as possible. “Mrs. Barnes is so good with her tarot deck, she’s half the reason I accept that magic is real...” He pauses for a second before continuing on in a perfectly pleasant tone, face entirely calm and clear, shining eyes meeting Bucky’s slyly. “...and that being stuck with Tony in a castle for seven years isn’t all just some terrible nightmare I’ll wake up from if I get punched hard enough.”

“Oh, so that’s why you keep putting yourself in danger.” Bucky rolls his eyes, reaching across the table to rap Steve sharply across the knuckles over Tony’s protests that hey, plenty of people enjoy being in this castle with him, isn’t that right, anyone, anyone? He can feel an affectionate smile crossing his face, though, because he’s a weak man. “But yeah, divination. After that, I’ve got DADA and Steve’s got Transfiguration.”

“Aw, shit. I forgot. You guys don’t have fourth period together on Wednesdays.” Clint shares a look with Natasha that Bucky recognizes as ‘significantly put out’, and Bucky has to kind of wonder _why,_ because really, that’s been his one and only stroke of luck the entire day. Of course, given his luck _track record_ thus far, DADA will somehow end up being a shitshow anyway through some unimaginable set of circumstances, so Bucky makes a point of not imagining it. “Well, at least there’s astronomy later tonight. You all planning on going?”

“Yeah, _sure.”_ Tony shakes his head. “Like any self-respecting seventh year’s gonna hike all the way up to the astronomy tower and spend some quality time with Sinistra at 11 o’clock on _V-Day.”_

“I would.” Steve sounds weary rather than affronted, which at least means he’s learning that Tony cannot be reasoned with.

“Yeah, but you’re _you.”_

“Bucky would.”

“Yeah, but he’s _him.”_

“Okay, I know you think I’m secretly a nonagenarian who passes as a teenager with the Philosopher’s Stone—”

“Why else would you act like my _literal grandfather?_ And if you’ve got the secret to immortal life hidden somewhere, by the way, you should totally share it with your ol’ pal Tony—”

“—but what makes you say that about Bucky?” Because for all Bucky _needs help,_ he is technically still considered the ‘cool one’ out of the Barnes-and-Noble duo. For now. In a few more hours the cat-picture-charms- _augh_ thing might actually take that from him, too.

“Because Barnes _needs_ _help,_ that’s why,” Tony says with a wicked grin and yeah, he’s kinda got him there, because Bucky would willingly find himself up on that astronomy tower balls deep in the friendzone at midnight on V-Day if Steve mentioned going to class, even if they were the only two there. _Especially_ if they were the only two there. Jesus, he’s got it bad. He should fix that, one of these nights when he’s free—not tonight, though, because apparently he’s going to be busy tonight braving the February chill with Steve Rogers on the astronomy tower like a goddamn masochist. “And because wherever Steve is, he’s there like a bad penny. Mark my words: you two will be the only people in class. _I’m_ definitely not going.”

“I’m going.” Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“I’m going.” Clint pokes at Natasha.

“I’m going.” Natasha pokes back.

“I’m going.” Rhodey doesn’t even look up from his book.

“You are all personal disappointments to me, but it doesn’t matter, because while you’re all there freezing your asses off my lady love and I are going to spend a delightful evening—”

“I’m going.” Pepper’s face is entirely neutral as she tosses a grape into her mouth.

 _“Come on!_ Why you gotta do me dirty like that, Pep?”

“You _rickrolled me,”_ Pepper hisses across the table, and Tony visibly wilts. Ha, instant karma. Schadenfreude. One of the few perks of not having a significant other. Is Bucky  _lonely?_ Probably. “With a _singing howler._ I need five N.E.W.T.S to get a ministry job, too, but. _Singing. Howler.”_

“Alright, alright, point taken. I’ll just have to change a few plans around, then—fireworks probably work better outdoors anyway. Less risk of permanent suspension or arson or something.”

 _“Were you planning on setting off fireworks_ inside _our common room?!”_

“So, Clint.” Bucky stabs at a piece of limp asparagus, raising his voice slightly over the sound of three Ravenclaws simultaneously imploding on each other. Bruce and Pepper chastising Tony is always an unfair fight, because it may be two-against-one but Tony is a force of pure evil and woe betide the poor, unfortunate souls who stand in his way. “What’s next for you?”

“Herbology. Thor had it last period—apparently it’s some sort of sex pollen thing.” Clint waves a hand airily. “Say, how much would you pay me to sneak some into the professor’s mead before dinner?”

“Don’t do that.” The mental image rises in his head, and Bucky swears a thousand plagues against his own overactive imagination and the lengths it will go through to torture him. _“Please_ don’t do that. I would give you so, so much money to do literally anything other than that.”

“So what I’m hearing is, you want me to put it in _Steve’s.”_

“Put what in my what?” Steve glances over from his conversation with Sam at that exact moment, because of course he does, and says the worst set of words possible, because _of course he does._

Bucky sees Clint bite down very hard on his tongue to stop himself from making _the_ joke, because Clint’s morality is forever stuck between embarrassing Bucky and being Hufflepuff-loyal to his best friend, but unfortunately for him Natasha is an eavesdropping Slytherin who compromises for no man. “Mm? You boys talking about your  _'dick_ dicks’ again?”

“Wait, Bucky and Steve finally talked about their dicks? And I wasn't there for it?” Apparently, loyalty has its limit. Bucky grits his teeth and glares, because Clint does not _deserve_ the yellow and black, dammit, not with that level of gleeful sadism. “And enlighten me, Nat, baby, how _does_ one put one’s dick into another person’s dick, anyway?”

“Fuck this shit, I’m out.” And thank the fucking lord, the lunch plates actually _do_ start cleaning themselves as Bucky begins extracting himself from the bench, fishing around under the table with his foot for his backpack. He hitches it up over a shoulder and rises like a phoenix from the ashes of his nightmare life, nodding at his two close friends as they stare up at him innocently. “I want you both to know that you’re bitches, and I will be suing you in wizard court for emotional distress. May you both be trampled by hippogriffs through sickness and in health until death do you part. Let’s go, Steve.”

“I resent that. I am _not_ a bitch.” Clint points at Natasha. “Bitch.” Between the three of them, they’ve done this so much that it might as well be a term of endearment. Natasha just looks _fond_ as Clint points at himself. “Booty-call-of-bitch.”

“Yeah, and cool it with the vows, I haven’t even put a ring on it yet.”

“Oh, I’ll _tell_ you where to shove that ring, Romanoff—”

“Right, and we’re walking.” Steve puts both hands on Bucky’s shoulders and begins steering him forcefully toward the doors, although he doesn’t stop Bucky from making gestures considered obscene in twenty different cultures at their mutual friends because Steve is understanding like that. Clint just gives him a wink and makes a heart with his hands, while Natasha mouths ‘get some’ and gives him a tight-lipped thumbs up with barely concealed amusement.

“Knock ‘em dead, Buckitty!” Tony calls as the door slams behind them.

And yeah, why not. Bucky kinda wants to knock himself dead, right then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an intermission chapter and i'm gonna be honest with you right here and tell you i wrote it because a. i'm a little worried the divination chapter's gonna be another forty pages, and i'm kinda procrastinating and b. to stop myself from starting ANOTHER wip, because i've begun planning one and it keeps throttling me but i wanna pls just finish this one first ;-;
> 
> i did not come into it thinking buckitty would become a big deal but these characters say things when i have my back turned
> 
> (trelawney may be a fraud but divination is a real magic and i will defend it to my DYING BREATH.)
> 
> kudos? review? also pls let me know if you'd like me to reply to more reviews, i tend not to as a holdover from ffn but i do like interacting with my readers! i'm just a little scared of y'all :')


	5. Divination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t cry, thank the fucking Lord.

~~~~Look, divination is real and Bucky will defend it to his dying breath. His mom may be a few generations removed from her Romani roots, but she’s still got the blood, so she and Bucky both have the Sight—weakened, maybe, but he _has_ it, dammit. And he _knows_ it’s real, because he distinctly remembers his mom squinting into the yolk of the egg she was frying and telling him his life was about to encounter its greatest milestone the morning before he stumbled upon a blonde little four-foot-nothing in the alley behind school. It doesn’t do things like tell him where and when Tony’s next magical explosion is, although not for lack of trying, _god_ does he wish it did, but big-picture things—like ‘oh, Steve’s going to undergo some drastic change in fifth year’ (and he did, of the physical kind) or ‘oh, February’s going to be a month of change and everything you think you know will go to absolute shit’ (and it is, literally right now). It _does_ that. He _knows_ it does that, because he can _do_ it.

That doesn’t mean Trelawney isn’t a fucking _fraud_ and Hogwarts divination is worth a single damn minute of the time he spends in that classroom.

Frankly, Bucky doesn’t know why he even bothers taking the class, because he learns more over the summer from his own mother than he ever learns from that stupid hellhole, enough to get an Exceeds Expectations on his O.W.L. when he spent all of fifth year Divination frantically cramming for his _other_ O.W.L.s while he was supposed to be in class. Heck, Steve doesn’t even _have_ the Sight, not really, and he _still_ picked up enough technique from Winifred Barnes to pass with an Acceptable when virtually every other sightless kid in their class bombed spectacularly. Bucky’s about ninety percent sure Steve only takes the class because Bucky does, anyway, and there isn’t a Wednesday afternoon that goes by that Bucky doesn’t look across the stuffy little tea table at his best friend desperately trying not to doze off and wonder why he subjects them both to this supreme torture. The masochism argument is starting to look more and more convincing as the day goes on.

There is, however, one _thing_ about Trelawney that Bucky is counting on today, something that’s usually one of many reasons why divination is not worth his spit but today could be his saving grace. He’s already reached a point where he’s expecting everything that could possibly go wrong to go worse than humanly conceivable, naturally, but if there’s _one_ thing he knows it’s that Trelawney, for all she really might have the Sight in some distant capacity that she herself doesn’t understand or know how to interpret, is so stubbornly set in her ways that if anyone could literally stare reality right in the face and keep stubbornly exerting their own vision of the future anyway, it’s her. And listen, if that version of the future can overwrite whatever literal hell Bucky’s stuck in, he’s all for it.

Don’t get him wrong, the _thing_ is usually the exact thing that makes Bucky most want to gently smother their professor with one of her overly cushy throw pillows; Bucky has cussed out ignorant classmates for far, far less than the _thing._ It’s just that, at the moment, he’d rather pretty much anything than the constant, steady stream of self-inflicted humiliation he’s already sat through today. And if it just so happens to be _the thing_ that saves him from it, he’ll tolerate the _thing_ for an hour. Maybe. Even now, thinking about the _thing_ kinda makes him want to drop-kick Trelawney out her tower window, but the _thing_ is definitely a very effective mood-killer if nothing else.

Because the _thing_ is that Trelawney, as she does, has been predicting Steve’s death for the past seven years.

* * *

 The divination room looks like the emo knock-off of Madam Puddifoot’s on a _good_ day, but on V-Day it looks like a terrible parody of itself, as stuffy and cluttered as ever and covered in rose petals to boot. The dust makes Steve’s asthma flare up, which is another of the many, many reasons why Bucky occasionally daydreams of one of Trelawney’s shawls catching on fire, but he contents himself with shooting the back of her head his ‘assassination imminent’ look and silently daring her Inner Eye to _see this, ya coward_ as he flips her off and collapses into the lumpy stool in their usual corner. Wanda Maximoff leans over from the table behind him, lips twitching upward briefly.

“Same as always?”

Bucky turns to give her a deadpan stare, then rolls his eyes into the back of his head as he claws in Steve’s general direction and rocks back and forth dramatically. Pietro scoffs into his hand. “‘Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I can see it quite clearly today; ice, eternal ice, trapping you in its clutches for years upon years!’ Gimme a _break.”_ He drops his head onto the table, lets the impact rattle around in his skull, and feels a little bit better that his physical pain level at least now matches a tiny, tiny fraction of his emotional pain level. Steve takes the moment to mess up his hair, which would bother Bucky more if the hand didn’t feel quite nice, actually, which _he is not a fucking cat, Christ._ “Where does she come up with getting _frozen in ice,_ anyway? She’s been doing this for, what—”

“Thirty-eight years,” Steve supplies helpfully, sounding so completely over the entire thing that he’s entirely bypassed the first four stages of suffering (incredulity, anger, despair, amusement) and gone straight to lifeless acceptance.

“—thirty-eight years. Can _you_ think of thirty-eight different ways for people to die? _I_ can’t think of thirty-eight different ways for people to die.” And he’s been thinking about it a lot, lately, in an increasingly hysterical way that lies mostly beyond the scope of realism but makes him feel a little better anyway. “What a way to celebrate V-Day. There’s some sort of irony, here. ‘Some say the world will end in ice’ or something. Get it? It’s funny, because _the world just won’t fucking end.”_ And he really shouldn’t, but he _does_ feel a little better, with the hope that today’s class might be their usual steady stream of death omens and angst rather than anything remotely romantically inclined. He allows himself the courtesy of smiling silently into the table, where no one can see him celebrate the fact that his life is doom-and-gloom instead of doom-and-humiliation. The _levels he’s sunk to._

“Actually...”

“No.” And Bucky means it, rubbing his face a little further into the ugliest effing tablecloth he’s ever seen and trying very hard to suffocate himself in it. “Don’t you dare, Maximoff. You shut your mouth.”

“I second that. _Please._ I’m all Valentine’d out for the day.” He hears Steve’s voice take on a hint of desperation from the other side of the table and ignores the little twinge in his gut, because _geez,_ he must’ve done bad under the entrancing enchantment. “I can handle being told I’ll die. I get told I’ll die every time I _have_ this class. I don’t think I can handle my romantic future.”

“Technically, Trelawney’s not wrong. We’re _all_ dying, just...slowly.”

“I will throw our crystal ball at you, Pietro, don’t think I won’t.”

“Oof. Too bad we’re not _working_ with crystal balls today.” Bucky can hear the grin in Pietro’s voice, that little _shit,_ and it sounds uncomfortably like Clint, and Bucky silently pities whatever sixth-year counterpart he has who will have to deal with this for the rest of his life. He tilts his head upward, letting his hair fall into his eyes in time to see Wanda rummaging through his bag and extracting _Unfogging the Future, Volume 5._ She opens it and points as her brother narrates, the two ever on the same unspoken wavelength. “Love fortunes today, so chapter thirteen. Tessomancy with rose tea.”

“That’s it?” Bucky can handle tessomancy. Mainly because he is absolute _shit_ at tessomancy. If there were a branch of fortune-telling that involved reading coffee dregs, maybe he’d get somewhere, but he’d have trouble picking out jack shit in tea leaves, let alone reading Steve’s romantic future.

(Alright, so he’s okay at it. But average, all things considered, which means he’s shitty enough to pretend his Inner Eye’s gotten glaucoma or something and get away with it.)

“No.” _Of course not._ Because the unspoken laws of the universe dictate that nothing can ever work out for Bucky Barnes, lest the world literally implode. Wanda gives him a sympathetic glance, and Bucky has to take a second to make sure she’s not using her stupidly impressive natural legilimency to read his mind like she sometimes accidentally does. With blood like that, it’s really no wonder that both she and Pietro have the Sight. “Also, palmistry.”

 _Palmistry._ Shit, he’s _good_ at palmistry. He’s going to have to hold Steve’s stupidly nice, stupidly warm hand in his hands and then _touch_ him, while getting a nice front seat into Steve’s _romantic future_ and then announcing it aloud and getting an equally nice front seat into Steve’s _reaction to his romantic future._ Dammit, _why_ did he decide to take this class again? Temporary insanity? Did he get possessed by Clint? The only saving grace is that Steve’s palmistry skills are subpar at best and flat-out contradictory at worst, so at least Bucky won’t have to sit there and watch Steve read ‘has had unrequited crush on childhood best friend for too many years and also probably will for entire life’ in his palm. And then Bucky realizes that _oh, Steve is going to sit close to me and cradle my hand in his stupidly big hands in a dimly lit room while I focus on my romantic future_ and decides that life is not worth living and really, getting frozen for eternity like Trelawney says isn’t a bad alternative. “Well, at least Steve here’ll get a good reading out of V-Day.” Because at least _one_ of them is getting something other than _extreme pain_ out of this class. “Ain’t that right, Steve?”

Steve doesn’t answer, white as a sheet and too busy looking like he’s screaming internally, but Bucky doesn’t have time to reach over and snap his fingers in front of his face before Wanda bites her lip in what is either reluctance or extreme amusement and continues. “And.”

“There’s _more?!”_ How could it possibly get worse than _palmistry?!_

“It’s tarot.” Pietro rolls his eyes at Wanda, who’s looking at Bucky with a pitying expression usually reserved for people who have months left to live, which for him is _months too many._  “Get hype, Barnes. Aren’t you good at tarot?”

And therein lies the problem.

Because Bucky _is_ good at tarot, otherwise he’s pretty sure his mother would’ve drowned him in a well, and he’s _read_ Steve’s future before, since they’ve taken divination together for four years, but there’s never really been a reason to read either of their _romantic_ futures, because he’s pretty sure both he and Steve would spontaneously combust. He considers it now, with the imminent possibility of spontaneous combustion, and decides that while he _would_ like this day to end as soon as possible, he would rather it not be because his bloodstream caught fire while trying to find a tactful way to tell Steve about the type of earth-shattering sex he’s going to have with his one true love or whatever (and _shut up, now, please, brain_ ). It’s the sort of strangely specific information one wouldn’t normally be able to get from divination, and his Sight is good but it’s not usually _that_ good—then again, today’s been just a bucket of fun, so who knows, maybe some latent spiritual power that manifests only under extreme embarrassment will pop up and wham, that’ll be the end of it.

“No,” he says, because until that end comes he will remain comfortably in deep, deep denial. “I’m terrible at divination. I’ve never heard of a ta-rot in my life. Is it like a carrot?” He raises his head, looking to Steve a little hysterically and seeing his expression mirrored right back. “Steve, have you ever had a ta-rot?”

 _“I can’t believe I’m taking this class for you,”_ Steve hisses back instead, pitched and mortified at the sudden realization that his entire romantic and sexual history and future is about to be laid bare at one o’clock on a Wednesday, and Bucky feels that traitorous little twist of happiness in his chest again when he says it, because life just _will not go his way._

* * *

 “This is gonna be so awkward,” Steve mutters as he raises his hand and catches the small satchel of rose tea Trelawney’s banished over to them. He cracks it open and barely has time to sneeze into his sleeve at the strong floral scent, tossing it over to Bucky at the last second; the good news is that he manages to catch it, but the bad news is that he catches it upside-down, which means the tea spills all over his lap. Y’know, as if the universe in general needed to rub it in. “ _I_ don’t even know what kind of person I—yeah. You’re gonna know before _I_ know. It just seems wrong.”

“Listen, Steve, this is a test.” Bucky sighs, dragging out his wand and using it to sweep the shredded petals into the teapot. It works, which thank goodness for small favors because if Bucky’s magic started turning against him it’d be a little _too_ convenient. Steve opens the teapot begins filling it with a swish of his wand, although not before making sure to flick some water at Bucky first. “This is a test from the universe, so that we can prove to Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton and Sam Wilson and all our other classroom-proximity associates that this stupid holiday is _not going to get the better of us, dammit._ I have put up with your bullshit for _too fucking long_ to let this defeat me. Our friendship is better than this.” And it’s true, and he means it, so if only his fucking stupid feelings would get with the program, thanks. “Look. Pietro and Wanda are doing it, and they _shared a fucking womb._ If they can do it without getting weird, _we sure as hell can.”_

“Pietro and Wanda are probably not human,” Steve points out, which is kinda true, actually. Given what they can do, Bucky can only assume that the twins are superhero aliens come to either save or destroy the planet. And he lives in a world where _magic is real._ “I bet Durmstrang teaches a class on how to be immune to human weaknesses like shame.”

“Rogers, you’ve never felt shame a day in your fuckin’ life,” says Bucky, which isn’t _technically_ true per say, but Steve feels shame so rarely for things that normal people would that it might as well be true. He considers dropping his voice, but they’re already practically whispering in the near-total silence of the divination classroom. “Jesus, Steve. I’ve seen you _wet yourself.”_

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“I have seen you _naked._ We _literally used to bathe together when we were kids.”_

“I hate you so much right now. I feel like it’s vitally important that you understand that.” Steve’s expression doesn’t change, although Bucky’s pretty sure his face is steadily going red. It’s a little hard to tell in the dim halflight of the classroom and Bucky’s own lense of pure, unadulterated exasperation, because they are in a room lit by _candlelight and a fireplace_ that smells very heavily of roses and is quiet except for the low, intimate whispers of their classmates and the crackling of the fire. He hesitates to say there’s a mood, but there is a _mood._ It’s distinctly unplatonic, which is making it very hard to focus on anything except the way Steve’s eyes sparkle in the candlelight, which frankly freaks Bucky out a little because he has never thought the word ‘sparkle’ in his entire goddamn life. And he’s _gay._ (Bisexual, rather, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“It doesn’t matter. The point is that I already know that you can sing the entirety of ‘High School Musical’ by heart, so I hate to break it to you, but anything I learn today _really_ doesn’t change the position you’re in.” Bucky rolls his eyes and manages to snap himself the _fuck_ back to reality. “If I wanted to implode your social life, I would’ve done so already. But then you would’ve done it back to me, and then we both would’ve gone to Tony, and then the world would have ended. Mutually assured destruction, buddy.” Thank God that’s their friendship dynamic. “So shut up, relax, and let me serve us both some dirty leaf water, okay?”

 _“Dirty leaf water.”_ Steve snorts, cracking open the lid of the teapot and nodding at the resulting cloud of aromatic steam before passing it to Bucky. “We go to school in _England._ I’m telling Peggy.”

“Peggy’s not gonna care.” Actually, Peggy might care a little, but in the grand scheme of things he’s so screwed already it doesn’t even matter. “Face it, Steve, we’re in divination. _My turf._ This is my house, these are my rules.” He quirks an eyebrow, making himself look as in-control as he can while pouring a cup of flower tea that he would rather boil his own head in than drink. “You can’t win here.”

“Yeah, because you can actually _read_ my future.”  Steve just rolls his eyes indulgently, which _rude_ , Bucky’s actively dying right here, couldn’t he at least pretend to be a little scared, and accepts a cup of tea as graciously as someone whose taste buds are about to be massacred can. He raises his wand to surreptitiously add a few cubes (or, you know, a metric fuckton) of sugar to his cup, but Bucky shoots him a glare and he lowers the wand reluctantly. Tessomancy may not be his specialty, but he can still respect the purity of the form. “Fine, fine—cheers.” He raises the cup to his lips before pausing. “Meanwhile, I’m gonna screw everything up and feed you false information and accidentally get you engaged to Moaning Myrtle. _My_ reading’s gonna be embarrassing for me and _your_ reading’s gonna be embarrassing for _still me._ I don’t know why I let myself do this.”

“Ah, we’re the same, you and I.” Bucky takes a scalding hot gulp of tea, chokes on some poorly crushed rose petals, and reflects on the fact that he’s seriously considering consuming more terrible tea faster, if only for the choking hazard of it all. It says something, he thinks. Something deeply metaphorical and pathetic. His eyes follow Steve, waiting until his friend is halfway through a big gulp. “Humiliation kink.”

And Steve nearly spittakes as he inhales on his mouthful of tea. Bucky sips primly at his own, face expressionless, and feels both a little guilty and supremely amused at the resulting glare, because this is kind of what he was born to do, torture Steve. _“I am going to kill you.”_ Said Gryffindor takes another gulp to wash things down, grimacing. “You’ve spent too much time with Tony. I am going to _kill Tony.”_

“Get in line, pal,” because Pepper has first dibs and Bucky and Natasha _just_ made plans involving the quidditch pitch a couple of hours ago. Bucky takes another sip of tea and regrets it immediately. _Tessomancy._ “Christ, this is awful. How do people drink this?”

“English willpower.” Steve drains the last few drops and slams his cup face-down onto the saucer with a mixture of triumph and disgust. Trelawney glances over disapprovingly, but both are very used to not giving a flying fart. “Or witchcraft. Witchcraft seems probable.”

“Hate to break it to you, Steve, but we are _literal witches._ ” Bucky goes to match him, but Trelawney not-so-subtly coughs into her shawl and Bucky settles for glaring right back even as he sets down the cup gently, because just because he has to obey doesn’t mean he can’t be an ass about it. “Alright. It’s a love fortune, so…?”

“Lemme check...‘After the last of the tea has drained, take it in your right hand and rotate it counter-clockwise four times while focusing your thoughts on the most recent object of your affections.’” Steve doesn’t look up from the book when he’s done quoting it, instead slowly letting his head drop into the pages. Bucky resists the urge to ruffle the golden hair, because while it would make them even for earlier, he thinks he’s about to get more emotionally charged physical contact with Steve than he’ll ever need in a lifetime. And he and Steve have a _lot_ of physical contact. “Or, alternatively, we could just smash our cups into our brains until we die.”

“Aw, c’mon, you big baby.” Bucky rolls his eyes, snatching up his own cup again and rotating it. He reluctantly allows his thoughts to stray to Steve in all his sunshine-y glory, smiling at him indulgently across from a library table or reaching to high-five him from the stands of the quidditch pitch or leaning against him in the common room and oh, look at that, he nearly turned the cup a fifth time. You know, like a _human disaster._ “See, look. Not too hard, is it?”

“Please don’t judge me on whatever’s in my cup.” Steve grabs it, looks up to the heavens as if shooting off a quick prayer, and squeezes his eyes tightly closed as he begins to turn it. Bucky spends all four seconds very consciously not wondering who his best friend is thinking about while he rotates the cup—Peggy was his last crush, he assumes, but there’s also the possibility it might be someone else. It’s been years, after all, it’s unrealistic to think Steve hasn’t found a single person he’d date in all seven years of Hogwarts just because he hasn’t mentioned it to him and _Barnes, we said_ not _to think about it, extract your head from your ass._ “Alright, here. Now gimme yours.”

“Not like you’re gonna see anything it in anyway.” Bucky hands it over and hopes to high heaven that his cup is either totally ambiguous, completely unreadable, or secretly explosive. Hopefully not the latter, but he’s not picky.

“Shut up, you jerk.” Steve turns Bucky’s cup, squinting at a little. “Um...shoot. It’s been a while since we’ve done tea...”

“Yeah, and thank God for it.” Bucky sets Steve’s cup aside; he’ll read it later, when he’s emotionally prepared, which probably means never. Either way, Steve can read first, get it all over with. If he reads at all—frankly, Bucky’s counting a little on Steve not being able to discern anything. “Need a crash course?”

“Mm...maybe?” His best friend bites at his lip, eyes darkened in focus, and Bucky feels himself actively struggle not to imitate the motion and let a shiver run down his spine. _One hour._ He just has to make it through _one more hour,_ and then he can cool off a little in DADA half a castle away from Steven Grant Rogers _._ He’s lived through many, many hours; he can make it through one more, right? Just in case, he promises himself that if he lives through the hour, he’ll lock himself in his room with a truly post-apocalyptic supply of ice cream and watch Netflix on Tony’s magically routed muggle computer until he’s comatose. “Closest to the handle’s the present, left’s the past, right’s the future...”

“Close, but no cigar.” He shuffles his seat a little so he’s sitting next to Steve rather than across from him, leaning over to point out sections of his own cup and feeling the warmth radiating from Steve’s skin while his brain screams at him to stop and NOT MAKE THINGS WORSE FOR YOURSELF, YOU FUCKING IDIOT. Rather unfortunately, Bucky has little practice listening to his brain and lots of practice helping Steve Rogers. “You read clockwise starting from the handle, remember? The closer to the rim, the closer it is to the present; left of the handle means it’s something that’s going to be in the past soon, right of the handle means the immediate future.”

“Right...right. And the closer to the bottom of the cup, the further in the future or past it is.” And then, because the universe is cruel and death is inevitable, Steve _leans closer_ so that he’s pressed back against Bucky’s shoulder, holding out the teacup between them, because _fuck divination is why._ To be fair, they do this sort of contact pretty regularly, but to be _more_ fair it usually isn’t happening in the divination classroom on Valentine’s Day while Steve is about to divinate Bucky’s love fortune and also potentially figure out about his decade-long unrequited crush, so Bucky feels he’s allowed a little bit of hyperventilation when he can, you know, _feel Steve’s breath on his neck._ “So this nearest to the handle looks a little like an umbrella—that’s my first impression, anyway—which is...um...”

“Uncertainty and difficulty,” Bucky says, trying very hard to add a questioning lilt to it to make it sound like he _isn’t_ currently going through his own personal circle of hell and has no clue what difficulties he could possibly be undergoing right at this moment and also for the last couple of _years._ “Cool beans. What else?”

“Geez, Buck, will you ease up a little? You’re lucky I’m reading anything period—let me savor my success.” Steve rolls his eyes and huffs (and Bucky can _feel it against his collarbone,_ what _monster_ thought it was a good idea to let seventeen year olds sit in a dark classroom together and talk about feelings) before pulling the textbook closer and flipping through the pages. “Okay, here we go. Looks like the umbrella’s actually important enough to warrant its own note in this chapter: ‘in the context of romantic readings, the umbrella can symbolize ongoing problems in the seeker’s current relationship and the seeker’s indecision about whether or not to continue the liaison.’” Steve glances over out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching upward. “Say, you haven’t forgotten to tell me you’re seeing someone, have you?”

“Uh, excluding my first-year fanclub and the secret family I’ve been raising in the fourth-floor broom closet...nope, don’t think so.” In fact, Bucky hasn’t seen anyone since _third year,_ because he is pining and also pathetic. “And that secret wife just gave birth to Australian triplets, so we’ve never been happier. That explanation’s probably out.”

 _“Australian triplets._ You’re one of a kind, Bucky Barnes.” Steve flips through a few more pages. “Then...aha! Here it is!” He clears his throat dramatically, holding the book aloft, and Bucky can’t clamp down on the giggle that escapes him. Trelawney shoots him a look from across the room. “‘Alternatively, the umbrella can also symbolize the agony and uncertainty of latent or unreciprocated...feelings.’”

There’s a single moment of complete silence and horror, while the universe struggles to catch up with the fact that it just _literally imploded._

...For the love of _all that is good and holy,_ of _all the fucking symbols_ in his _goddamn teacup,_ _that’s_ the one that Steve sees?!

“...Bucky,” Steve says finally, voice oddly pitched as he straightens and sways away, contracting inward a little. Bucky chances a glance over from where he’s sitting entirely frozen and hoping, maybe, that if he doesn’t move Steve will forget he exists or alternatively that a meteor will fall from the sky and brain him and take him out of his misery _please,_ for the love of Wizard God _take him away;_ the Gryffindor is frowning down at the cup, eyebrows creased, eyes dark and downcast and a million miles away as he thinks. When he finally looks up and meets his gaze, Bucky lets out an entire involuntary sound that sounds a lot like _‘nghoh’_ and covers the full range of coherent thought he’s currently capable of, a cold feeling washing over him—because Steve looks _hurt,_ well and truly distressed for a single second before he goes back to staring blankly at the teacup. “Say, you wouldn’t happen...

Bucky would give his literal _left arm_ to have the fucking Rapture happen right then and there, because Steve Rogers knowing about his stupid, _stupid_ feelings for also Steve Rogers and looking that personally distraught can only mean one thing, and that thing is _death._

“...to have a crush on someone out there that you haven’t told me about, would you?”

_...Praise be to Steven Rogers, Patron Saint of Obliviousness._

And, because the universe is still a bitch but has also thrown Bucky _one, singular lifeline_ that he intends to take advantage of like the _fate of his immortal soul swings in the goddamn balance_ because it _really, really does,_ Bucky nods with feigned slow reluctance and schools his face in a way that he hopes says something more like ‘my best friend found out a pseudo-secret I didn’t really care about keeping’ as opposed to _‘REEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—’_. “Uh. I didn’t really wanna have you find out like this.” OR EVER. “But...yeah.” His brain struggles to operate, slow and sluggish after having _literally come back from being 100% certified deceased._ It’s gotta be someone Steve doesn’t know—and bull _fucking_ shit, is there anyone he could feasibly feel that strongly for that Steve doesn’t know? God damn it, why do they spend so much time together?! _(Probably because of Bucky’s stupidly unrequited feelings, thanks, stupid_ fucking _umbrella feelings.)_ “It’s just someone from back home—one of Rebecca’s friends. Not that big of a deal, really.”

Steve still looks a little like he’s just been stabbed and disemboweled, even while his expression starts to struggle towards impassive neutrality as he gazes deep into the teacup, which really only makes Bucky feel a little like he’s just murdered his own puppy. It’s understandable, he guesses; he usually tells Steve everything, so naturally Steve’s a little hurt that he kept this to himself. And to be fair, Bucky probably _wouldn’t_ have kept it to himself, if there were a single ounce of truth in it instead of being a _giant fucking lie._ Bucky knows maybe three of Rebecca’s friends by sight and one by name, and he hasn’t really had the emotional capacity to think about any of them (or any _one_ ) romantically when it’s all taken up by one particularly thickheaded blonde seventh year who’s currently staring at him with thinly veiled dejection. “Look, it was just a passing thought, okay? That’s the only reason I didn’t tell you, honest to God.” He elbows Steve lightly for good measure, _just bros being bros,_ and feels his heart slow to the speed of a semi-relaxed hummingbird. He’s covered himself pretty well, hasn’t he? _Hasn’t he? HASN’T HE?!_ “Stop looking like that, you’re gonna make me feel guilty. I promise that if I ever _really_ like someone, I’ll let you know so you can give ‘em the fourth degree before anything starts, okay?” Ha. _Hahahaha._ Bucky Barnes, starting with someone. What a funny joke. Because Bucky is a disaster. A disaster with _umbrella feelings._

“But...” And Steve’s frowning back at the teacup, looking _more_ distressed in a way that Bucky didn’t think was physically possible, and flips the textbook over so he’s in the back with the glossary. His eyes are starting to harden with resolve, which _fuck,_ if Steve somehow reaches the right conclusion from here Bucky takes back every nice thing he’s said about the universe in the past two minutes because it’s a _right bitch._ “Look, here. I _knew_ I recognized it.”

“Recognized…?”

“The anchor.” Steve points at a blob right smack at the highest point in his cup—and in all fairness, Bucky doesn’t _see_ an anchor, but all he _does_ see is a lot of goopy mush and his life flashing before his eyes, so maybe it’s just his current mindset. “I remember it—I read it in your cup last month, the one about our personalities. It’s _loyalty.”_

“Yeah, Steve, that’s what happens when you’re a _Hufflepuff.”_

“Yeah, but in the context of your _love_ fortune?” He points to another blob, this one center-left. “The curved shield—you saw this in _my_ cup last month, I remember you _told_ me. Protection. Care. Strength.”

Wow, would you look at the time? It’s time for Bucky to _talk his way out of the situation before it literally kills him._ “I dunno, Steve, those are _blobs of tea._ Are you sure it’s not just a circle or something?”

“Your mom always said to follow your intuition with these things, though.” _Damn_ his mother. No, he takes that back, his mother is a wonderful person that Bucky has a really great relationship with, not to mention she’d probably skin him alive if she could hear his thoughts. Steve is only half-paying attention to him anyway, squinting into the cup and turning it back and forth. “I...huh. Is that a flower?”

“Hm?” And Bucky can’t deny it, there’s the distinct shape of petals directly across from the handle—a flower with a round, white ring in the center. He feels the sudden crawl of existential dread, because it’s suspiciously unambiguous for a tea leaf reading and Bucky’s 99% sure that there’s not a symbol that means ‘has unrequited crush on best friend of over a decade who is currently reading this cup’, but he was also 99% sure before today that he wouldn’t find himself wishing he agreed with Tony that divination is a pseudomagic and yet here he is. “Huh...yeah, I think so.”

“Poppy. The white ring in the center—it might be a poppy.” Steve’s already flicking through the book, which gives Bucky time to stare at him incredulously because _today, of all days, is the day Steve Rogers chose to get good at fucking divination._

“It’s...selflessness or sacrifice.” And Steve slumps back suddenly, as if all the fight’s gone out of him, which immediately puts Bucky on edge because Steve _never_ slows down when he’s on a roll. He turns so he’s facing Bucky, eyes meeting his earnestly, sad and a little confused, and yep, there’s the stirrings of guilt in his gut, right on schedule, making quick friends with the pit of panic in his stomach. “Protection. Loyalty. _Selflessness._ This—I—I dunno.” He runs his free hand through his hair as he puts the cup down, messing it up, and on instinct Bucky rolls his eyes and licks his hand before reaching up to smooth it back down. Steve makes a distressed noise, as if trying to stress the importance of his point. “This isn’t just a small thing, y’know? This is—look, it just seems like a _big deal.”_

“Yeah, and it’s _unrequited.”_ Bucky sighs and looks away, wiping his hand on Steve’s robe sleeve and wishing more than anything to _please, let this conversation be over._ Because Steve’s a little right and a little wrong—they’re big, fancy feelings, sure, but in the long run Bucky thinks that even if he _does_ get over Steve romantically at some point, he’s still gonna feel pretty much the same way. Regardless, he doesn’t particularly feel like dwelling on it, not when he could be thinking about literally _anything else._ “No use crying over spilled milk, right?”

“It just doesn’t seem fair.” Steve crosses his arms and frowns, and Steve getting angry at the injustices of the world is familiar ground and infinitely better than Steve being sad that Bucky doesn’t trust him, but Bucky barely has time to relax before his best friend is suddenly averting _his_ eyes and frowning determinedly at the cup again. For a second, he bites his lip worriedly and it almost looks like his cheeks are red. Then Bucky remembers that they’re in the divination classroom with poor visibility, and that Bucky’s mind is his own worst fucking enemy. “It’s just...you’re a catch, Buck. You deserve someone who’s gonna appreciate you, someone who’d return all of... _this._ ” He trails off, gesturing soundlessly at the traitorous teacup on the table and ignoring the fact that Bucky is currently experiencing what must be cardiac arrest. “All I’m saying is, whoever this person is, they’re an _idiot_ and they don’t know what they have.” How long has Bucky dreamed of Steve acknowledging that he’s an idiot? He almost wants to get the words in writing, before he realizes that Steve _can’t know he’s talking about himself on pain of death ever,_ and that he’s still rambling on while Bucky retreats into himself to have an quick existential crisis. “Maybe you should...I don’t know. Shit or get off the pot, right? Maybe you should move on.”

“Yeah, sure.” And he has to laugh at that, because there is no such concept as ‘moving on’ when he’s just been moving further and further into the abyss for _literally years._ “Because I’m knee-deep in eligible bachelors and female undergarments.”

”I’m serious!” Steve chuckles back, tension easing as he looks at Bucky with shining eyes and an easy grin, and Bucky feels his heart simultaneously stutter and sink because yeah, like _hell_ he’s ever gonna be able to get over that. “First-year fanclub aside—and if you date any eleven-year-olds, Buck, I swear to God—there’ve _gotta_ be people out there who appreciate you, who’d give _anything_ to get the chance to take you out properly.” And fucking hell if Steve doesn’t look too earnest for a second, like he actually knows this for a fact because he _actually thinks_ he’d be lucky to take Bucky out. Bucky feels something bloom in his chest that feels rather horrifyingly like the feeling under the entrancing enchantment earlier in Charms class, and begins pinching his arm repeatedly to the rhythm of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ as it plays loudly and a little hysterically in his head. “Look around you a little, is all I’m saying.”

Bucky makes a show of actively looking around himself, supposedly jokingly but also kind of to see if Clint is about to pop out with a camera and announce that he’s being punk’d because _what the fuck is happening._ “Maybe,” he says, ignoring the fact that the stupid umbrella asshole his teacup is referring to is, in fact, the closest person in his vicinity as he plasters on a grin. “So, got any other inspirational monologues for me or can it be your turn already?”

“I’m not seeing much in the right side of your cup, so sorry I can’t give you good news about your future.” Bucky’s not sorry. Thank the fucking _Lord_ for that, actually, because the last thing he needs to hear from Steve is that he will ascend into spinsterhood by sheer virtue of his inability to get over himself and his stupid feelings. “No, wait, just...hm.” Steve gives the teacup a final shake. “Just that a lot of tea leaves settled right in the bowl of the cup, in an even circle all the way around—huh, except a little break here at the handle. It seems a little vague, but it could be an arch or something. Hang on, let me check the book...”

“It’s a line,” Bucky blurts, and then internally kicks himself in the balls because _shitshitshitshitshit. SHIT._ He knows what it is. He _knows_ what it is. _Steve_ is going to know what it is in a few seconds if he doesn’t _shut his damn mouth._ His mouth, not getting the message, continues rambling blissfully on anyway like a _dumbass._ “It looks like a circle, but if it’s right along the bowl of the cup with a break at a handle, it’s pretty clearly symbolic. A line, straight from the distant past to the distant future. Consistency of the emotion or situation.” And then, because his mouth doesn’t _stop_ and has probably been possessed by the spirit of Tony Stark or maybe Lucifer, he says it. “Almost like ‘to the end of the line.’ Or something.”

Yeah. _Or something._ Because that makes it _so much better._

“Huh. Yeah, you’re right. You really think so?” And for some reason, about a thousand emotions flicker over Steve’s face in seconds. Bucky’s able to pick out a few of them, because Steve is always an open book for him: elation, surprise, realization, horror, and then a guilty caginess. For a second, Bucky wonders if this is it, the shoe has dropped and Steve’s finally figured it out (not that it’d be a surprise, he _did_ just quote word-for-word the promise he made Steve as a child when Mrs. Rogers got sick, _good job, Barnes_ ), but in the end his friend just coughs into his fist and hums and Bucky remembers that _oh, right, his mind is his own worst enemy_. “What—I mean, what do you think it means? For your romantic future?”

Bucky knows exactly what it means. It means he’ll be hung up on this jackass punk until he _dies,_ but he’s already fucked up his own life enough today, so he makes sure his mouth and brain are _on the same page,_ which is _lie like a fucking dog,_ before he dares to open his trap. “No idea. Maybe it’s got to do with someone involved in my romantic life other than me? Usually that’d be some kind of romantic rival, or maybe an admirer—”

“Nope, don’t think so! Anyway, my cup?” It happens so fast that Bucky has to blink a few times to make sure he hasn’t physically gone through a tim warp—Steve drops Bucky’s cup down on its saucer so suddenly that the resulting rattle echoes around the room, lunging across the table for his own and knocking over the textbook as he shoves it haphazardly into Bucky’s hands. Bucky raises a single eyebrow and takes it, feeling a little better about his life as he watches his friend maneuver his unfamiliarly large limbs like a disaster, because Steve finally looks ready to move on and Bucky is _so, so ready to move on._ He puts the book down, takes Steve’s cup in his hand, turns it so the handle’s facing toward him, and then realizes abruptly that his life has ended.

Because. _Steve’s romantic fortune._

Look, Bucky’s not an _idiot._ He’s a pitiful excuse for a human being, maybe, and his life is a constant slow-moving nuclear explosion of epic proportions, but it’s not because he consciously tries to make it so. He does his damndest to make sure shitty things don’t happen to him, mostly by mentally preparing himself for when they inevitably do because they _inevitably do_ nearly all the time, because he’s friends with a group of _monsters_ who make his life harder than it needs to be. He prepared for amortentia in potions. He prepared for entrancing enchantments in charms. He prepared for romantic readings in divination. He _tries._

Unfortunately for him, however, that doesn’t necessarily mean he prepares _well,_ and he usually ends up preparing for the wrong thing because the world just _loves_ personally proving him wrong every single time. And in divination, he’d prepared himself for the worst case scenario—that Steve Rogers would read his teacup, figure out that Bucky had been harboring a crush on him for the last few years, let him down gently, and then they’d both immediately die in some sort of freak magical Chernobyl-style accident that flattened all of England. Somewhat improbable, maybe, but that’s why they call it a _worst-case scenario._

What he did not prepare for ( _because the universe exists to prove him wrong_ ) is the moment where he stares down into Steve’s teacup and realizes, with all the calm resignation of a man who is about to get _royally fucked_ , that he might be about to read the white-picket-fence fairytale happy ending of his unrequited crush’s romantic life that has absolutely nothing to do with him.

“Well then,” he says as the funeral march starts playing in his head, because what else do people do when they’re about to literally keel over and die? He wipes his mind carefully blank and focuses very hard on nothing, because if there’s one thing he’s learned from four years of Trelawney and her babbling it’s how to get through divination readings without processing a single damn thing around him. “Clockwise from the handle, it looks like you’ve got...a telescope.” It could be any number of things, of course, because it’s a blob of tea (and geez, the more time Bucky spends in this moment the more stupid divination sounds, maybe Tony was right and _none of this matters_ ), but it’s definitely some sort of lens and Bucky’s gut says telescope. “It’s by the bowl but pointed towards the handle, which probably means it’s an emotion from the distant past carried into the recent past—possibly even the present. Traditionally, it indicates close observation of a shaky situation and possibly anxiety, but in a romantically attuned cup it might have a different meaning; I’ll check in a sec, but you’ve got a bugle here at nine o’clock and that’s a pretty self-explanatory one.”

“Yeaaah, you’re gonna have to explain it to me anyway.”

“Amazement, admiration, wonder. Usually also a harbinger for some sort of celebratory or life-changing event, but likely not in the context of this reading.” Clearly, he’s not on his game today, because even though his mouth is set very deliberately on autopilot as he redirects his conscious mind to reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy as loudly as possible, extreme alarms are going off somewhere in the back of his head and getting progressively louder as Bucky flips one-handed through the textbook and swills the cup around a little more. “And here near the top, you’ve got an anchor just like me. Loyalty.”

His brain starts screaming at him with all the force and disappointment of Winifred Barnes with his annual grade report, but it isn’t until his finger finds the sentence ‘the telescope indicates adoration from afar’ in his divination textbook that it finally starts screaming in a language he _understands;_ namely, in a series of aborted syllables and high-pitched whistles that convey something along the lines of ‘HEY, LOOK, I THINK STEVE MIGHT HAVE A CRUSH ON SOMEONE’.

His first instinct is to ignore the voice in his brain, because _his mind is his own worst enemy._ His second instinct is to ignore the voice in his brain, because _Steve would have told him._ His third instinct is to ignore the voice in his brain, because if all his experience willfully ignoring reality wasn’t leading up to a situation like this then _what the hell was it all for._

His fourth, unfortunately, is the one that makes him turn to Steve with a raised eyebrow and the smile of a _fucking serial killer,_ probably. “So, who’s the lucky lady?”

Steve just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he shoots Bucky a resigned look, which good for him, clearly he is capable of dealing with situations like an adult and has learned from better than Bucky, because Bucky feels like his gut is actively being put through a _tornado._ This. This is a worst-case scenario. This is _the_ worst-case scenario. This is the worst-case scenario Bucky was _not prepared for,_ because sure, he’d just braced himself to see something about Steve riding off into the sunset on his broomstick with his true love in, like, the distant future. He just figured he wouldn’t care about it because he’d never have to deal with it, because he’d already be dead because of his asshole friends and their _asshole_ decisions. It’s one thing to see Steve happily in love in some distant capacity in the ambiguous year of 20XX or whatever. Knowing Steve has a crush on someone _now_ …

Well, actually, it kind of makes him want to smash the cup into his brain until he’s dead. Would you look at that? Steve had the right idea all along.

“It’s no one,” Steve says from about eighty miles away, somewhere where hell isn’t freezing over. Bucky has to mentally shake his brain and remind it to _get the fuck over yourself, you knew this was a possibility,_ because just because Steve hasn’t actually expressed interest in anyone since before Bucky got _the feels_ doesn’t mean he’s been obligated to stay celibate forever or whatever. It just wasn’t something Bucky was prepared for, that’s all. Really, at this point, why does he bother preparing for _anything_ if the world just keeps throwing him atomic curveballs?

“Sure it is, Steve.” For a single second Bucky considers pushing Steve for a name, because he’s a _masochist_ who really kinda wants to know which thoughts he should be torturing himself over later that night, but ignores that urge in favor of bending over the cup. If Steve doesn’t want to tell, he won’t make him. Besides, Bucky has a _hunch._ A hunch that takes the form of extreme horror crawling up his spine, but a _hunch_ nevertheless, and one he needs to check and confirm for himself. “Alright. Moving on to the right side of your cup...”

And for once in his life, Bucky is decently prepared, which fucking _good,_ because if he hadn’t been at least somewhat bracing himself for this he’s pretty sure he’d just drop the cup and take a casual stroll into the lake right then and there. As it is, he has to physically stop himself from bashing his head against the table at every new symbol he sees. “Right near twelve o’clock here—immediate future—is a lock. It’s open, so it points to some sort of surprising revelation or a secret being uncovered.” And some dark, selfish part of him prevents him from saying that it might even be a declaration of feelings, because _fucking Christ._ He vaguely remembers wondering if he’d been put in hell, sometime back in Charms class, and if so fucking _good job, Satan,_ because this is kind of the worst possible form of torture. This is what actual hell will be like for him now, Bucky realizes; he used to think he’d be having his eyeballs sucked out through his rectum but nope, he’s pretty sure he’ll spend his eternal punishment reading Steve’s future of romantic bliss until the end of time. _Fuck._ “And further down, a rising sun. New beginnings, usually a good omen.” For _fuck’s_ sake, the teacup doesn’t need to rub it in. Can tea leaves gain sentience? Follow-up question, can they be smug bastards? Because these tea leaves are _smug bastards._ “Last thing here, at the very bottom, seems like it could be a fountain or spring. A symbol of overflowing fortune or happiness—and it’s at the end, too, so it’s an open-ended indicator of your ongoing future.”

And then he sets the cup down on the saucer between him and Steve. And then he smiles a little, for Steve’s benefit, and then he turns away a little toward the window so he can brood and also vividly picture throwing himself out of it for his own stupid, _stupid_ stupidity.

Because _Peggy Carter._

Fucking telescope from distant past to immediate present, who has Steve known that well for that long that the cup could _possibly_ be talking about? Peggy had told him a while ago that they’d discussed things like proper adults some time after Steve got over himself and found out how to speak in complete sentences around her, and Steve has said himself that he doesn’t feel that way anymore, but if there’s one thing Bucky knows it’s that it’s very, _very_ easy to bury that shit _deep in the ground_ so that you don’t even know your denial. He knows this because that’s where he _was,_ for many, many years, up until he finally had it pointed out to him in fourth year by Natasha because he’s a _fucking disaster._ He _knows_ what it’s like to suddenly realize that hey, you’ve actually been fucking gone over someone for a literal decade without knowing it, what were you _thinking_ , you idiot, are you literally _blind?_

Steve’s figuring this out too, from the looks of things—he’s certainly figuring out _something,_ because he’s staring incredulously at Bucky as if Bucky just told him the sky is green and also a government-generated conspiracy theory. He snaps his mouth shut when he realizes he’s been gaping, licking his lips (and really, is _now the fucking time for this_ ) and exhaling noisily through his nose. He mouths silently for a moment, trying to dig up words as Bucky stares dead-eyed at him and stubbornly feels nothing at all. And then his expression starts, horror of horrors, to look _hopeful._ He looks like he’s won the lottery, actually, staring at Bucky with eyes so laser-focused he practically feels it cut through both him and the twins sitting behind him. _“...What.”_

“I mean, that’s what _I_ see. I’m not always the best at interpreting tea leaves, though, so I could be wrong. You should check for yourself.” He waves his hand at the cup and a thought leaps into his mind, a little frantic and a lot selfish, and escapes out his mouth before he can stop himself. “The sun after the padlock—it could mean a new beginning with the person from your past, or it could mean a _new_ new beginning. With someone new.” Okay, the word ‘new’ is starting to lose its meaning. “Or. Y’know, with someone different.” He shifts, wishing for a second he could take it back because if there’s _one_ thing he knows it’s that he never wants to make Steve sad, but his fortune turns out happy anyway, so no harm no foul, right? _His fortune turns out happy anyway._ Fucking _Christ._ “There’s no rush, I guess, is all I’m saying. I can really fuck things up, sometimes.” Understatement of the century. Understatement of this _entire plane of existence._ He slaps on a smile and gives Steve a droll look, hoping to holy hell that it looks convincing because it _feels_ like he’s getting his soul surgically removed. “Don’t go doing anything reckless because of my shitty tessomancy skills.” Ha. Fat chance in hell, with Steve Rogers as the _literal dictionary definition_ of reckless.

“...Oh. Okay. Yeah, I won’t.” And yes, he’ll admit it, Bucky _definitely_ feels bad when he sees Steve deflate a little as he grabs his cup, because his subconscious mind and the hold it has on his mouth is clearly not satisfied with making _himself_ miserable and has now progressed to also making _Steve_ miserable. He doesn’t have time to apologize or grovel or something, however, before Steve’s eyebrows crease and he points into the cup. “Wait. Does this here look like a wolf to you?”

“Hm?” Bucky leans over accordingly, pushing his life problems away momentarily to focus. He didn’t see it before, but Steve’s right—there’s a blank space within a large patch of tea leaves that creates the impression of a white wolf, right in the very center of the cup. “Huh, maybe...” He has to rack his brains for a moment and think about what a wolf means in the context of tea leaves and _well, that’s strange._ “Wolves are typically a warning to look out for a false friend who covets what you have, but that’d just be the head of the wolf—and this wolf is in the blank space rather than the tea itself, so it’s inverted.” He shrugs. “So...maybe the opposite of what I just said, then? A friend who _doesn’t_ want what you have?” That’d be a pretty redundant symbol, though, and particularly out of place in a romantically themed cup.

“I...guess?” Steve shrugs and sets his cup down again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Is there anything else a wolf could mean? A white one, in particular?”

“I can ask ma, if you want.” Although he has a feeling if he writes his mom about this day his mom will tell him to stop dicking around and make a move already, in about as many words, and then go get Rebecca to tell him the same thing. His family’s wonderful, really. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s too off-center to be part of the timeline of events, so it’s probably more of an overarching theme or representation of something. Either way, it shouldn’t mess up your happy ending.” And wow, is it just him or does he sound really, _really_ bitter? He should get his vocal chords checked. Or maybe removed, so they can’t fuck up his life like they seem hell-bent on doing.

“Right.” And for a second, Bucky sees it—the cautiously hopeful expression that crosses Steve’s face, as if hardly daring to believe what he’s hearing could be true. “Right...hey, c—”

“It looks like most of you are wrapping up your readings.” And here comes Trelawney, right on schedule, drifting by airily and collecting the china with majestic sweeps of her wand. Bucky has never been so glad to see her in his life and thinks he might never be again, before he remembers there are two more forms of fortune-telling to go today and that he’d better buckle the fuck up. “I do hope they were illuminating. We’ll be moving on to palmistry now, so please turn your textbooks to page two-hundred seventy-three. I’d like you to focus on the Line of Heart and Mount of Venus, as everything else will be irrelevant to your romantic readings.” She flings her arms out dramatically, and Bucky has to stifle a laugh as a tassel hits Steve in the nose; Pietro snickers as Steve glares between the two of them. “Remember to concentrate, and let the ambiance clear the smoke that clouds your Inner Eye!”

“Do you think my Inner Eye would be able to see better if she dusted?” Wanda leans over and murmurs, voice purposely light, and Bucky snorts and feels himself relax as she nods to him surreptitiously. See, this is why he loves her. She’s like the little sister he’s never had, because she is _very_ different from Rebecca, who would probably rather watch him marinate in his own emotional agony than intervene on his behalf.

“Maybe there’d be less smoke clouding mine if she put out the fire for a damn change.” He rolls his eyes, turning back to his table as Wanda sways away with a swift, comforting pat to his shoulder. _Bless that girl._ They’re all so lucky she doesn’t use her mind-reading powers for evil. “You were saying, Steve?”

“Nah, it’s nothing.” And for a second, Steve almost looks disappointed, except say it with me now: _Bucky’s mind is his own worst enemy._ He’s not surprised, frankly; he suspects he’s projecting a lot of his extreme negative emotions about the day onto Steve, probably because he’s experiencing too many in too short a timeframe for his body to handle on its own. And he’s not a small man. “So, palmistry?”

“Palmistry.” Fuck, _palmistry?!_ Hasn’t he been through enough already? He was _maybe_ emotionally ready to hold Steve’s hand in his and use it to interpret his romantic future, back in the better land of twenty minutes ago when he had plausible deniability. Now, with the newfound knowledge that his feelings are really unrequited and the distinct possibility that Steve will find out about his crush before the hour is out, he thinks he’d rather just set himself on fire now and get it over with. “You read me first last time, better read me first this time.”

“Well then.” Steve coughs, voice dropping as he cups his hands out on the table, waiting for Bucky to place his in them (and fuck if it doesn’t make his stomach do something funny). “Do you mind giving me your hand?”

“...What, like in marriage?” And he holds his left hand out accordingly, like a little shit, and waggles the fourth finger while batting his eyelashes, like a little _shit,_ and Steve laughs. Bucky will admit it—it makes him smile too, and also feel a little better. Christ, he’s weak. “Well, I’m not used to moving this fast, but alright then, Rogers. Do it. Make an honest man outta me.”

“Nice try, asshole, but the book says non-dominant.” Steve rolls his eyes as he takes Bucky’s right hand, smoothing his fingertips over the skin of his palm and bending Bucky’s fingers forward gently to better get a look at the lines. Bucky tries very hard not to shiver, except Steve’s fingers are always _gentle_ and _warm_ during palmistry readings, and he always traces the lines he’s reading with his thumb even though it’s not technically necessary, and his brain needs to shut the _fuck_ up before he decides to lobotomize himself after all. “Alright, so the heart line’s the crease furthest up, right?”

“Christ, Steve, _yes.”_ Bucky huffs in frustration, which is at least a better emotion than the fidgety nerves he once experienced back when Steve first began reading his palm. Dare he say he’s a better, more mature person now? Probably not. Bucky’s still a fucking mess, just in a very different way. “How did you even pass your divination O.W.L.s, if you don’t know the major lines?”

“Listen, buddy.” Steve looks up sternly as if to make a comeback before pausing, biting his lip on a smile, clearly unaware where to go from there. Bucky smirks and hums skeptically, which makes Steve turn back to his hand with a glare. Ha. One point to Bucky. Even when he’s losing at his entire life, it’s good to know he can still score cheap points against Steve. “...I hate you.”

“Nah, you love me.” One of these days, their banter is going to get Bucky _killed._ Today might be the day, actually. “So. Heart line? What’s it say?”

“Don’t rush perfection,” Steve mutters, squinting at the line so closely that the tip of his nose brushes Bucky’s palm, which definitely does _not_ make him jolt upright at the light tickling sensation, nope. This is definitely the most humiliating class he’s been in so far today, and there’s not even _witnesses_ this time. At least he was _delirious_ for the entrancing enchantment. “Geez, you’d think Trelawney would turn on the lights or open the windows...anyway.” And yep, there it is, Steve’s thumb, rough and raised from quidditch and fistfights, stroking gently over his palm. _Fuck his motherfucking life._ “Alright, so it looks like the line rises between your index and middle finger.” He finally moves away a little to check the book, and _thank God,_ because Bucky can’t hold his breath for that long and he’s scared of exhaling while Steve’s that close to him lest he accidentally squeak or something. Hey, he’s allegedly part cat, it’s _possible._ “Apparently, that indicates a balance between the idealism of Jupiter and the selfishness of Saturn. ‘These people are not always overly obvious about their affections, but are capable of making the greatest sacrifices nevertheless.’ Yeah, I’ll say.” And what, exactly, does Steve mean by that? Bucky will figure it out later, when his head’s not swimming with the way his best friend is now cupping his hand in both of his larger ones, _fuck V-Day and everything about it._ “The line seems pretty deep...maybe? I don’t really have a baseline to compare it to or anything, but it’s deeper than the other lines on your hand.” He flicks through the book a little more, which gives Bucky time to breathe out. So far, so damning. “Hidden emotional depths...these people tend to feel things strongly, even if not outwardly so. So you’ve been a softie all along, huh?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he can _feel_ the blood rising to his cheeks as Steve glances up quickly, eyes flashing as he smiles at Bucky indulgently, and suddenly Bucky’s hand feels hypersensitive and all the nerves there are _screaming_ and he silently swears to himself that if he gets turned on from having his _hand held_ he’ll offer himself up to the nearest dragon and end it all, no questions asked, because he’ll officially have nothing left to live for. “Anything else?”

“Uh...not that I can see.” Steve traces the line one final time before moving over to dig his finger gently into base of Bucky’s thumb, and Bucky’s brain has to shut off and manually reboot itself for a full minute before he remembers that this is what’s supposed to happen in palmistry. He tries in vain to remember how to act and function like a _human being._ It doesn’t work. “Just that it’s a little bumpy at the beginning, but I think it smooths out, so maybe it’s a sign that things’ll go your way.” Steve shrugs, glancing upward with a rueful smile. “I have to make up for not giving you a good reading in your tea leaves somehow, right?”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Which isn’t saying much, because his head’s feeling a little fuzzy and if Steve told him that ringwraiths had just stormed the castle and established a dictatorship over the wizarding world Bucky would probably believe him. However, Steve’s strong suit isn’t really palmistry, and Bucky’s more inclined to believe that the line is a series of bumps spelling out ‘GET REKT’ in morse code before he believes it’s anything remotely positive, because he has a pretty good idea of what his romantic future looks like and it involves a lot of pining and repression, same as it has for the last couple of years.

“Now, as for the Mount of Venus...” Steve blinks at the book dubiously for a second, then back at Bucky’s hand. “It looks pretty much like what the book says is normal, I guess, which means you probably have a healthy capacity for love and companionship.” And then his index finger sweeps over the curve of the muscle and Bucky breathes in and out and does _not_ fidget like a schoolgirl, reminding himself that Steve has _read his damn hand before,_ just because they’re talking about his romantic life for once doesn’t mean he’s suddenly become the protagonist of a young adult novel. “You’ve got some sort of pattern here, though—what is it called again, a grille?” The two of them scoff in unison. “Anyway, apparently that’s charisma and allure; ‘if the Mount of Venus has a deep-grilled edge, this person is extremely attractive to potential partners and will never lack admirers.’ I think I’d take it a little more seriously if it didn’t make me think of barbecue every time.”

“And that’s how we know my undeniable animal magnetism doesn’t work on you.” It’s funny, because Bucky legitimately can’t remember the last time he noticed someone looking at him like that; ambiguously flirtatious asshole is his default form of communication, in a way (and in large part to hide how much of a dumpster fire he is on the inside), but he hasn’t gone out on a real date in years. Now that he thinks about it, though, he has vague memories of being popular with the ladies in, like, _the first grade_ before he met Steve, back when ‘being popular with the ladies’ meant getting notes with checkboxes and a shit ton of free animal crackers. After Steve, it’s a bit harder to recall, because his life becomes a blur of ongoing extreme disaster. “That it?”

“Yeah, I think that’s all I’m gonna get out of you.” Steve tilts Bucky’s hand sideways, squinting. “You probably have marriage lines, but I honestly can’t tell in the lighting and there’s a fifty percent chance I’ll mess up and say you were supposed to get married twenty years ago anyway—”

“Before I was _born?”_

“We’re in divination, not math.” Steve waves a hand dismissively, which is a little worrying because he _did_ pass math at fourth grade level in muggle intermediate school. “Unless there’s something else I should be checking?”

“You bet your _ass_ there’s something else.” Trelawney’s like a broken clock with both hands ripped off—fucking wrong and of no help whatsoever. Bucky’s seen roadkill with more divinative power than her, which is not even an exaggeration because he’s watched his grandmother read the entrails of dead animals on more than one occasion. “You still remember my hand shape, right?”

“Yeah, you’ve got Earth hands.”

“ _Yeah,_ and that means something. Check the next section, it’ll probably be there.”

Steve mutters darkly under his breath, ruffling the pages accordingly until the header changes before giving Bucky a dry look, the one he gives him when Bucky’s right. “No way. Can you, like, predict the future or something?”

“Don’t sass me, Rogers.” Bucky flips his hand over briefly in Steve’s and latches his fingernails in until Steve does it back. It’s almost like holding hands, if holding hands were a silent contest of pride and willpower and also if your life were absolutely _pathetic,_ which his is _._ “Just read the description.”

“We’re in divination, not English.” Bucky digs in a little harder and Steve hisses, scraping back one final time before conceding. “Alright, alright!” He bites his bottom lip, and Bucky can _see_ the internal struggle as Steve contemplates whether or not to be an asshole. “Buckitty has claws...”

“Christ, even you?!” If he can manage to lose the nickname sometime within the next three hours, there’s still a chance the world at large can move on and forget it within a month and allow him to regain some semblance of his shattered dignity. _Maybe._

“Well, I wouldn’t say it if you didn’t scratch me!” Steve pats his hand twice when he says this, as mockingly teasing as always as he swipes his fingers over the faint indentations of his own nails. This is a normal amount of physical contact for them, Bucky has to remind himself as he flips his palm back so Steve’s holding it in the proper palmistry position, so he should be having a _normal amount of reaction to it_ as opposed to acting like he’s been struck by _lightning._ It’s the fucking ambience, is what it is. Bucky may be going to hell for his behavior today, but Trelawney is going _first._ “Now, where was I? Right…‘You can identify Earth hands by their broad shape, with square fingers of approximately equal length to square palms. These hands often have a thicker, coarser texture and accumulate calluses easily.’” Steve runs a thumb over a few of the rough spots on Bucky’s palm and nods to himself, while Bucky does his best to stay as still as possible and act like a human being as opposed to, say, a disaster actively dying at each wayward brush of skin. “‘People with Earth hands are solid in their beliefs, unshakable once they choose a path to follow and not easily swayed. They are usually grounded, down-to-earth, and try to behave practically, although they can at times be stubborn.’ This is all the same stuff we saw when we first started reading hand shapes, you know.”

“If you don’t finish reading about my hand I will _punch you with it.”_ Steve waves off the threat with all the indifference of a man who has been punched several, several times before, so Bucky changes tactics. “If you don’t finish reading about my hand I will mind-game you so hard while I’m reading _your_ hand that you won’t know which parts are me fucking with you and which parts are actually your romantic future. I will put you in twelve different marriages. I will give you thirty children out of wedlock. I’ll tell you you’re going to own a literal modern-day harem.” He blinks slowly, emphasizing each word as it comes out of his mouth and throwing in his dead-eyed death glare for good measure because it’s not like it’s going to work on anyone ever again after today anyway, he might as well get some mileage out of it. “I will put you in a love triangle with _Stark and Loki._ And you may not believe me when I say it, but it’s going to traumatize you anyway.”

“And the book called you grounded and down-to-earth? No wonder Tony thinks divination is a fraud.” And yeah, okay, so Bucky will admit that he isn’t, especially because he’s pretty sure (after having spent a vast majority of the day wondering whether the universe is actively conspiring to end him) that he has lost the right to call himself practical ever again. He might still be the _comparatively_ grounded one between him and Steve, of course, but that’s not saying much. “‘As lovers, Earth hands are intensely loyal to their partners, acting as a dependable source of strength and supporting their loved ones through turbulence or change. They are often nurturing and warm in their affections, maintaining unshakable faith and trust in their partner.’ That...really sounds like you, actually. How I thought you’d be in a relationship, anyway.” Bucky’s not sure how Steve’s drawing that conclusion, because he doesn’t think he’s had a long-term relationship in any of the time Steve’s known him, which also translates to his _entire lifetime,_ but there’s a strange note in his best friend’s voice that Bucky feels like he _should_ recognize that stops him from snarking something back. Steve reads on, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed by the textbook. “‘Because of their nature, they put a lot of thought into their romantic ventures and will usually only have a few serious relationships in their lifetime. In addition, they can act as a stabilizing or grounding force to more volatile partners, like Fire hands.’”

“So _that’s_ what you need, an Earth hand to shut you the fuck down and stop you from getting in trouble.” The words are out of his mouth before he realizes it and Bucky immediately cringes and doubles over to rest his head on his outstretched forearms, because he has to wonder for a hot minute which pit of hell these thoughts are coming from and what he has to sacrifice to _shut the gate on it immediately._

“What makes you think _that’ll_ work? I’ve already got an Earth hand who’s been trying for _years.”_ And for some reason Steve is speaking _softly_ now, sounding almost impossibly fond. Bucky’s head snaps up only to find _fuck, Jesus, yes, NO,_ because for some reason Steve’s leaning across the table toward Bucky, brilliant blue eyes bright and _only a few inches away from his own._ It’s like potions class all over again, fuck, because he is _right there_ and Bucky is not looking away and _Steve is not looking away_ and everything is dimly lit, they’re _this_ close, and his hand is _still. In. Steve’s._ For a single second Bucky hallucinates, assuming this entire thing isn’t all just a really long fever dream, because he swears to God he can feel that _warmth_ again, just like he did in Charms class when he was pressed right into Steve, this day is _fucking_ with him, and he has the sudden irrational urge to close his eyes and hold his breath and _what._

“But yeah, I think that’s all I’ve got for you.”

Finally, _finally_ Steve lets go of his fingers, turning that _look_ away and slamming the book shut. The sad thing is, it takes a moment for Bucky to even realize, as caught up as he is in the lingering moment, so by the time he snatches his hand back it’s already been longer than socially acceptable, because he can’t do anything right today. It still feels _warm,_ dammit, because he’s a _lost fucking cause._ At least he didn’t get an _erection_ from a _palmistry reading,_ thank goodness for small favors, and Bucky makes a mental note to return to that point over the next half-hour if he ever thinks he’s hit rock bottom. He allows himself a single moment of abject despair and internal screaming as he lets his head drop back into his arms before raising his head and plastering on his most shit-eating grin, mentally beating himself back and compartmentalizing the past minute _soooo_ deep down because _nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside._ “Valiant effort, Steve; I’m almost impressed. Now step back and watch how the master does it.”

“Narcissist.” Steve grumbles, stretching out his left hand obligingly; Bucky takes it, running his fingertips over it quickly so that the tendons relax and casually forcing a friendly smile on his face to stop himself from screaming, because his friend’s hand is a familiar weight in his and apparently his emotions run _deep like his heart line,_ sue him for being a sap, he literally _just_ got out of a moment of weakness and he’s still not sure he didn’t just let the fumes get to his head for a second.

“Not narcissism if you’re really that good. Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.” He smooths his fingers over the planes of Steve’s hand, biting his lip contemplatively and preemptively pigeonholing his mind as firmly into ‘platonic classmate’ mode as possible, because that slip up _(WHAT WAS THAT?)_ is already one too many for his entire lifetime, thank you. “First things first, your hand shape—you’ve got Fire hands, obviously. Let’s see…‘Fire hands generally have rectangular palms that are longer than their fingers, and their skin is often flushed and warm.’ Yeah, you’ve always ran hot.” He cups his hands around Steve’s, letting said heat seep into his own skin, and nods to himself thoughtfully. When he looks up for confirmation, Steve’s face is practically as red as his robes, which yep—Fire hand, through and through. “‘Fire hands are action-oriented people; instinctive and spontaneous, their energy and outspoken nature make them natural leaders. They can feel strongly and get heated easily, which often leads them to act impulsively and take bold risks.’ No, _really,_ I never would’ve guessed.’”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m just personally offended—y’know, as a grounded, practical Earth hand and all.”

“You’re a _jerk_ , is what you are.”

“And you’re a punk.” Bucky sees Steve open his mouth with a comeback and plows onward with the textbook, because he’s seen this become a five hour thing before and, while he’d really _love_ to burn the rest of divination on an entirely pointless argument that has nothing to do with feelings or V-Day, he usually isn’t the one who ends up with the final word. And he _craves_ the final word. “‘As lovers, Fire hands are passionate and enthusiastic partners who are very open, expressive, and affectionate in romantic relationships. Although they’re naturally inclined to fall in love easily, their intense nature ensures that they remain consistently dedicated and infatuated to the ones who prove themselves worthy of their devotion. They often wear their hearts on their sleeves, which can make them seem naive and makes it easy for them to get hurt or manipulated in love.’” And, because whosoever dares touches a hair on Steve Rogers’ head can look forward to experiencing the full range of Bucky’s knowledge of curses in order from least to most traumatizing, Bucky frowns and taps Steve on the hand so he can meet his gaze dead on. “Your hand’s right, you know—you’re too trusting for your own good. Watch out for yourself. And if anyone hurts you, let me know, okay? Just don’t ask me where I bury the bodies afterwards. Plausible deniability and all that.”

“...Yeah, Buck.” Steve’s eyes shine dimly in the muted light, curious and open and just a tad solemn. Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve, not breaking his stare, because if there’s one thing he knows about him it’s that he’s a self-sacrificing punk who thinks _telling_ people about his problems is the same thing as _burdening_ them with it.

“‘Yeah, Buck,’ you’ll _what._ ”

Steve rolls his eyes at that, because he _knows_ that he’s a self-sacrificing punk who thinks telling people about his problems is the same thing as burdening them with it, and smiles. There you go, weirdly serious mood broken. “‘Yeah, Buck,’ I’ll let you know if anyone hurts me. When don’t I tell you anything, huh? I always get to it eventually.”

“Yeah, except your tea leaf crush.” He singsongs his voice like it’s a joke, because the alternative is probably having it crack over the second syllable because his voice is actively out to get him killed today, and immediately regrets bringing it up because Steve looks a little sad and a little hopeful and opens his mouth to probably apologize or talk about his feelings or whatever and just end Bucky right then and there, so Bucky just keeps talking over him, end of discussion. “Alright, moving on to your heart line, then. So, as we already know—”

“Yeah, yeah, my head line and heart line are the same.” Steve has two major lines rather than three, and Trelawney never lets him hear the end of it—mostly because it supposedly means Steve is impulsive and takes risks that are liable to put him in danger, which makes him more likely to die. In all fairness, she’s actually not _wrong_ about that one, which drives Steve _insane_ because nothing takes the edge off jumping headfirst into danger like the ensuing misguided pity of one woman and her delusional conception of Steve’s fragility. It was frustrating when he was small and it’s more frustrating now.

“It’s called the ‘Simian Line,’ you doofus. Now, I read your head line a few months ago, but those features have different connotations when read as a heart line.” There’s a single straight line that cuts across the palm, one side to the other; Bucky runs a finger over the crease, smiling fondly despite himself, because _of course_ Steve Rogers’ head and heart are aligned, righteous and reckless and self-assured, what with him throwing himself into everything with his entire being and setting himself apart and _fuck,_ has he got it bad. “For one, yours is also fairly deep, so if I’m a softie you’re just as bad.” He pokes at it for emphasis, scoffing as Steve jolts upright and squirms. But sure, _Bucky’s_ soft and sensitive and the cat and whatever. “It’s curved sharply upward at your thumb, which means you’re a considerate partner. A giver, y’know?” Because _Bucky_ knows now, which is fucking _great_ because he’s probably going to be thinking about it for the foreseeable future and complaining about it to Natasha in a few hours. _Fuck_ divination, honestly. “And if I compare it to the diagram here, it seems almost entirely smooth, save for two bumps in quick succession here in the beginning. To me, it seems like you’ll have a pretty ideal love life after a couple of disappointments early on. As a matter of fact, if I had to guess, I’d say you might have a single serious partner that lasts you through your lifetime.”

The _lucky fucking bastard._ Bucky has to take a minute and run his fingers mindlessly over the lines of Steve’s hand, just to make sure he can get past the weird lump that rises in his throat (and he’ll sooner tell Clint it’s a _furball_ than try and decipher what it might be, thank you very much) and prevent himself from glancing up to gauge Steve’s reaction. He fails, because he’s _terrible;_ Steve’s leaning so far forward he’s about to slip off his stool, drinking in every word as if being hypnotized by Bucky’s voice, and for a split second Bucky’s frozen in place by the bright eyes and flushed cheeks and the _Steve_ until he remembers that this is the normal human reaction people have to positive romantic fortunes. And then he remembers that Steve, the person he’d maybe date (yeah, _maybe,_ like he has a _choice),_ is staring at him like this because he’s delivering Steve good news about dating and probably also riding off into the literal sunset with a person who is _not him,_ and he feels a little better. Or worse, but ‘worse’ is entirely subjective and also his default state, so at least he can say feels a bit more like himself, because he’s always fucking _miserable._ “Well, thank God for that, I don’t think I could handle you trying to play the field. I know I’m your wingman, but I gotta tell you, I can barely handle you stumbling around _one_ person.”

 _“Bite_ me.”

“You asked for it, Rogers.” Bucky snaps his teeth together with his most dangerous smile, the uncomfortable pressure of his thoughts receding beneath the familiarity of comfortably platonic banter; Steve smiles back eagerly, bouncing his leg energetically under the table, which makes Bucky think about the fact that he’s excited over hearing about his probable life partner and _back away from the subject, Barnes, check yourself before you wreck yourself._ “On a more general note, those with Simian Lines throw themselves heart and soul into all their pursuits, including love. Also, they’re also supposed to be ‘upright’ and ‘outspoken’ and ‘decisive’—which is my ma’s nice way of saying that they’re headstrong stubborn-ass dangers to themselves and others, so I know who to thank if I get sent to an early grave.” The answer is himself. He will have no one to thank but himself, for attaching himself to a headstrong stubborn-ass danger to himself and others.

“Yeah, okay, but _one_ serious relationship? Does it say anything else about it?”

“From your heart line?” Bucky would rather off himself that take one more look at that stupid line and its stupid, happy future. He’d rather off himself than sit in this classroom for another minute, actually. Briefly, he contemplates how one blinds their Inner Eye—with an Inner Needle or something equally stupid, perhaps. He should ask Wanda about that sometime. “Just that, if I’m comparing it to your life line, it looks like that relationship will begin...fairly soon, actually. If you want more, I’d have to read your marriage line.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s face lights up like Christmas and July Fourth combined, which would normally make Bucky feel all warm and fuzzy or whatever if he didn’t currently feel like his soul was leaking out of his body somewhere through his shoes. “Let’s do that, then.”

“Gimme a sec, I wanna knock out the Mount of Venus first.”

“Will _that_ tell me anything about my soulmate?”

“Soulmate? What do you think this is, a Disney movie?”

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ what I think.” Steve says it sarcastically, but he _did_ also get thrust into a world of literal magic being real at the age of eleven, so he’s probably allowed to seriously consider it. “I’m the singing princess. You’re the anthropomorphic animal sidekick. Well?”

“Probably not, the Mount of Venus usually says more about _your_ outlooks and behavior as a romantic partner—”

“Can we get to that after the marriage line, then?”

“Oh my God, we are not five anymore, you can wait _two minutes_ before you learn more about your _soulmate_ or whatever.” Frankly, it’s because Bucky needs the break, because if he finds out any more about this mystery woman there’s no guarantee he won’t do something stupid and totally over the line, like (just throwing this out there) straight-up tracking down her home address and mailing her a twenty page exam complete with essay questions and a background check. Even if it’s Peggy. _Especially_ if it’s Peggy. “We’ve been over this. This is my house. These are _my rules.”_

 _“Fine.”_ Steve crosses his free arm over his chest petulantly, because he might have everyone else fooled but Steve knows that Bucky knows that Steve is a literal child, so there’s no point in hiding it. “But this had better _actually take two minutes.”_

And, well, challenge accepted, because divination is Bucky’s shit and he can’t win against the universe but he can _still win against Steve._ “You better start counting now, buddy, because I’m gonna do it in _one.”_ He tests the muscle at the base of the thumb with his fingers, mentally switching himself over to autopilot. “Right, so first things first, your mount’s pretty high and firm, the mark of a true romantic. It’s well-formed without being too large, which is typical of you artistic types because it means that the bearer is a worshiper of beauty in all its forms, both physical and emotional.” He has to pause for a second to inhale, which is a mistake, because Steve takes the pause to tap his wrist and mouth ‘forty seconds’ and Bucky is _not_ going to lose, not over stupid things like _oxygen._ He doesn’t need to be alive to be victorious, anyway. He would _rather_ not be alive, actually. The victory would just be a bonus at this point to the sweet, sweet release of death. “The mount’s tinged a darker shade of red than the rest of your hand, probably because you’re a Fire hand and all—but since one of the most important veins of the palm runs underneath, visibly healthy circulation signifies passion and a dominating personality in romantic relationships. It’s also fleshy, which is usually indicative of a high sex drive—”

_“Guh?”_

And the sad thing is that it _takes_ a moment, for him to connect his mouth to his brain and analyze the words that literally _just_ came out of it, and then it takes another moment, for him to connect his thoughts and realize that Steve is making nonsensical noises because Bucky just casually brought up his sexual appetite within twenty feet of a Hogwarts professor at two o’clock on a Wednesday, and then it takes _another_ moment, for him to immediately throw all his higher mental facilities out the window because he just _casually mentioned that Steve has a high libido, y’know, just normal things to know about your best friend who you also have a thing for._ He has the sudden urge to drop Steve’s hand like it's made of fire and hydrochloric acid, which he would probably do if he weren’t currently holding onto it like it’s his last remaining shred of sanity, because _bitch, it might be._

“Uh.” He looks to Steve for help, which is about as useful as he expects because Steve looks like he’s busy astral projecting himself into a volcano, a half-formed expression of distant horror on his face. Bucky briefly flashes back to Charms class. This is a normal experience, probably, for their friend group at large. “Well. Fifty-seven seconds?”

“Is there.” Steve swallows. From the looks of it, he’s swallowing twenty different sentences and the urge to vomit. Bucky almost wants to pat his hand sympathetically, because _been there,_ except for all they’re insanely close with limited physical boundaries he thinks that if he touches any part of Steve within the next thirty seconds he might emergency self-destruct or alternatively imply something totally inappropriate about his sexual preferences. “Is there. _Anything else._ Or can we move on.”

“Let me...uh, let me double check.” He has to squint for a while, because Trelawney is a _fraud_ who would rather create _ambience_ to _clear the Inner Eye,_ as opposed to letting in some fucking light so his _actual_ eyes can see the tiny-ass lines on Steve’s palm. He runs a thumb over as gently as possible, trying to feel out possible indentations or irregularities in the skin, but it’s difficult—so much so that when he first finds it, he kinda doesn’t believe it and has to go over another few times. “Oh, you’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

“Try me,” says Steve, incredibly dryly and with the inflection of a man who has learned more about himself than he will ever need to learn in the last three minutes.

“You’re gonna take this _entirely_ the wrong way.” Christ, Bucky hopes. He really, _really_ hopes. “But there’s a trident here; or, y’know, three lines from different directions meeting at a fork, if you want to get technical.” Fuck. _Fuck._ This is a bad day to have divination. This is a bad _year_ to have divination. Fuck it. This is a bad _life_ to have divination. And also, y’know, to live. “In the context of this reading—and for fuck’s sake, Steve, I cannot stress this enough, do _not_ take this the wrong way—it means you’ll have, uh.” The words have to physically fight him to escape his throat, because he does _not_ want to say it, because if he says it he’s going to have to acknowledge the situation and how fucking fucked he is. “Luck. With finding the love of your life.”

_Fuck._

“...So what you’re saying,” says Steve, smile spreading over his face that is equal parts shit-eating and pure, angelic elation, and Bucky dies a little for that smile because he’s a _fucking loser,_ “is that I have a _soulmate.”_

“No. That is the literal only wrong way to take it. That is _not_ what I said, because we are _still not in a Disney movie.”_ This, at least, he can handle. He can’t handle the rest of his life anymore, obviously, but this he can handle. Being an _asshole_ is familiar territory, so Bucky clings to it like a dying man and extends his active denial inwards until he is not thinking about Steve and his life partner and his romantic life or _anything_ other than being an asshole. “I said ‘love of your life’, which is not in dispute, because there is no such thing as _soulmates._ And I said ‘luck’, which means it’s just a strong possibility. Because there is _no such thing as soulmates.”_

“Fine. Marriage line, then.” Steve thrusts his hand out again, all earlier awkwardness forgotten, nearly vibrating out of his chair with excitement, glowing in the certainty that he’s been promised a fulfilling love life and overeager to know as much as he can. Bucky feels his best friend’s happiness resonate within him, so at odds with the existential dread gnawing at his heart that he feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience. For a second, he has to wonder if he _died_ somewhere between the sex thing and the soulmate thing, and if he’s now a literal ghost yelling at his own body that clearly hasn’t gotten the message that it’s supposed to _be dead_ to please fucking stop, drop, and roll before his life (that is _already over_ ) gets any more impossibly worse. Then he remembers that he wondered the same thing during Charms. Oh, to be young and naive again. “My hand’s gonna prove you wrong.”

“Your _hand_ is gonna say as much as I want it to say, because I’m the one reading it. Here, tilt it upward.” The light’s poor, which makes it hard to read proper details, which makes Bucky realize yet again that Trelawney’s shitty, shitty excuse for divination is actually something he has to thank her for today on this, the stupidest and most backward of days. “Well, your marriage line lies low on the Mount of Mercury, which means you’ll marry young—by my estimations, it looks to be your early twenties.” Great, and even _now_ , it looks like he can’t catch a _fucking break._ If Trelawney isn’t good at helping _make_ predictions and isn’t good at helping _screw up_ predictions, _what the hell is she good for?!_ “The line’s also unusually clear and long, and it lies directly parallel to your heart line. That’s a sign that you’ll have a happy, healthy marriage with mutual love and faithfulness.”

“Yeah? And in my early twenties?” There’s a palpable energy in Steve’s voice. “D’ya think it could be in the next five years? Could it be someone I already know?”

“It’s certainly possible.” Bucky tilts Steve’s hand a little closer to the firelight, squinting to pick out finer details and decidedly avoiding his gaze. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure _what_ he’s feeling at this point—there’s an uncomfortable cross between jealousy, resignation, disbelief, and happiness for his friend that all just adds up to a really, _really_ bad stomach ache. Not bad enough to go to the hospital wing, though, not yet, and isn't that a damn shame. “I’m calling dibs on best man now, by the way, so don’t even think about asking Sam.”

“Why would you—oh, right. Best man.” _Ouch._ Today’s just a bad day for Bucky’s self-esteem, isn’t it? At least Steve finally seems to realize where he is, because the Gryffindor smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his head, cooling down so that his energy could only power half the population of Europe as opposed to all of it and then also the entire world. “Yeah, ‘course you are—you’re my best guy, aren’tcha?”

“And don’t you go forgetting it. Now, let me get one last look here...” And, because Bucky hates himself and his life choices and should really just drop it and say the reading’s over but also _has to know for the sake of his own sanity,_ he tilts Steve’s hand a little closer to the light to make out some of the finer details. “You have a series of small upward creases surrounding your marriage line, too fine to truly be considered separate marriage lines of their own, which indicates a healthy network of lifelong friendships surrounding and supporting you and your partner.” That, at least, comforts Bucky—from the looks of things, there’s no outside jealousy tainting the line, so at least it’s looking likely that he’ll approve of whoever Steve ends up with. “And...huh, it looks like there’s a really faint line that runs perpendicular to your marriage line, connecting it to your heart line and crossing through both. Interesting.”

“Yeah? What’s that mean?”

“Let me _think_ for a second, Rogers. It’s something my grandma said a while ago, some ancient superstition.” A nursery rhyme, more like. All Bucky remembers is that the saying was kind of dumb, actually, because it didn’t even rhyme _properly_. Frankly, he’s surprised he even remembers it at _all;_ he probably wouldn’t, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s something of a personal issue. His grandmother had sworn up and down that she’d seen the line in Bucky as a toddler, while his mother hadn’t been able to and argued that the lines on a toddler’s hand changed easily and were barely visible to begin with. Given that Bucky’s grandmother was already legally blind at the time and his life has ended up here, with Bucky as a literal trash dumpster locked firmly in the friendzone of Steve fucking Rogers, he’s inclined to believe his mother. “Something about life or something? ‘The one who crosses both your lines…’”

Oh, right.

_Right._

“You and your _bullshit.”_ And yep, it’s over. His life is over. Bucky drops Steve’s hand, crosses his arms dramatically on the table, and drops his head into the well there because _are you fucking kidding me._ “You and your _fucking soulmates._ Are you _kidding me._ Are you actually fucking _shitting me right now?!”_

“Soulmates? What was that? I heard soulmates.”

“Oh, _fuck the fuck right off,_ grandma was senile anyway.” She could also interpret palm lines correctly ninety percent of the time, even if she couldn’t see them herself when her vision failed, but Bucky doesn’t have to say that because Bucky is busy drowning himself in the deep end of denial. “Soulmates don’t _fucking exist.”_

“Well, _that_ can’t be right. I’m pretty sure I heard something different a second ago.” Bucky feels Steve elbow the top of his head, which _ow,_ they’re still bony as fuck. He can _hear_ the slow evolution of that familiar smirk as Steve catches on. “Something about life. How did it go again?”

 _“You think you’re cute.”_ Bucky huffs angrily into his arms, refusing to lift his head. This is where he’s going to die. This is his decision. He’s making the choice not to look up again until the world ends in fire or ice or exploding kittens or whatever the fuck. It’s his goddamn birthright. “You think you’re _hot shit.”_

“I _know_ I’m cute, Natasha says so. C’mon, tell me. Tell me the saying.” And, because Steve Rogers is a right bitch sometimes, he just keeps elbowing. “Tell me. Tell me. You can’t hide forever, you know. Tell me. Tell—

 _“You are literally five.”_ Bucky rolls his eyes, realizes Steve cannot see him roll his eyes, and props up his middle finger for a few minutes before he feels something slimy touch it because _Steve, the literal five year old, licks his hand like a literal five year old._ “You are literally aging _backwards.”_

“What’s the saying?”

“...It’s about lives. Plural.” Bucky has to stop for a second, because it sinks in right about then—that Steve has. A _soulmate. Maybe?_ “...‘The one who crosses both your lines will hold your heart for many lives.’ Or something.”

Yes, Bucky, because _or something_ makes everything _so much better._

“...Holy crap.” Bucky actually _raises his head_ at that, because Steve’s voice is awed and reverent, like Wizard God suddenly came down from the clouds and literally landed in the room to high-five him. He’s still staring at him, too, which _c’mon, Steve,_ could he not just make it a little _easier_ on Bucky by not looking at him like Bucky’s the best thing since magic was invented, because that’s not helping with the mood whiplash he’s currently experiencing. “Holy _shit._ I have a soulmate.”

“Really? I had no idea. It’s not like you ever mentioned it to me or anything.” He can _feel_ how waspish he’s getting, the usual playful facade he hides behind _noping_ out of existence into the ether, and he really _tries_ to reign it in, except the part of him that would usually keep all his shit in check is currently wallowing somewhere near the center of the Earth.

Because. Bucky _knows_ that soulmates are bullshit. He _knows_ this _because_ he’s good at divination, because the future’s always malleable and a little uncertain which means _nothing_ is guaranteed or ‘meant to be’ or whatever, and Bucky will argue this until the cows go home or come home or drop dead or whatever the fuck. That being said, he’d like to think he’s allowed to be a _little_ bitter about finding out that Steve Rogers, the man upon whom the universe has decided to throw Bucky’s umbrella feelings with zero regard to his own personal emotional stability since they were _literal toddlers,_ might have a heavenly mandated significant other that is _not him._ Bucky has low hopes for the actual existence of Wizard God, considering how much he curses him out, but he kinda has to wonder, sitting in the room being the literal _bearer of this news_ and all, if this entire debacle has been orchestrated for the express purpose of torturing Bucky with stupid unrequited feelings from someone with extreme malicious intent. If the puppet master controlling the universe really _does_ have a personal vendetta against him or whatever...well, actually, that’d explain a lot about Bucky and his terrible awful no-good very-bad life, because before today Bucky could claim unawareness and remain in some state of ignorant bliss. Now that that’s been forcibly removed from him he’s a little bitter and a little sad and a little jealous and a lot ready to lie down on the floor and let Jesus take the wheel or whatever, because clearly he’s not doing a great job with his life and his choices, somebody _wake him up inside._

Naturally, because God is dead and control is an illusion, none of this happens. Instead, Trelawney sweeps around the room like a literal bat out of literal hell, distributing packs of tarot cards to each pair and staying blissfully unaware of the fact that the literal world is ending, which is kind of a shame because if _anyone_ would appreciate the apocalypse it’s probably her. Bucky doesn’t even bother holding out his hand to accept the pack she offers him, content to sit in the pit of misery that is everything about his entire existence, so Steve takes it for him and pops the box open.

“You’re not gonna like this,” he warns, passing the deck over, and Bucky kind of wants to scream as he takes it because _what’s not to like, other than literally everything about his life._ “But it’s major arcana only.”

“Let us move on to tarot with the seven-card romance spread depicted on page two-hundred ninety-nine.” Perfect, Trelawney’s talking again. This day just _never ends._ It is an endless parade of pain and torture and _homicide._ It’s a Groundhog Day scenario, where every hour is kind of different but not really, just a mildly adjusted variation of the same damn concept: _Valentine’s fucking Day. Fucking Valentine’s Day._ And it will _never end. Never._ Because Bucky is in _hell._ “Attune your decks with yourselves and your partners, and allow the future to show itself to you!”

“What future,” says Pietro, loudly enough for Bucky and Steve to hear with half a laugh in his voice, which good. It’s nice to know _some_ people can still feel the capacity for joy when the universe is made of pure, unadulterated evil. “I _have no future.”_

“If the future fucking shows itself it can fucking _fight me,”_ Bucky growls back, shuffling the cards with all the enthusiasm of an actively disintegrating human being, and he fucking _means it._

* * *

 The future.

Yes, if you must know, Bucky _does_ think about his future. He’s a seventeen year-old wizard who’s about to graduate from Hogwarts and move on to a full-fledged career, of _course_ he thinks about his future. He can say he hasn’t thought about it _wisely,_ because the full-fledged career he’s currently aiming for is one that literally involves throwing himself at as much danger as humanly possible, but he’s _thought_ about it. He’s preparing his N.E.W.T.s and talking to professors and busting his ass and everything. He _thinks about it._

About his _romantic_ future? Ha. _Hahahahaha._ Now that’s a different story, because why would you think about your romantic future if you don’t _have_ a romantic future? Or, you know, if your romantic future is a steaming pile of _dragon shit._ Yeah, no. No point. That’s a box best left closed. And locked. And also maybe tossed into an active volcano, if Britain had more active volcanoes.

Bucky thinks about it now anyway, about the steaming pile of crap that is his love life, as he cuts the deck of tarot cards in front of him. He concentrates on it _really_ hard, as one does when they’re trying to attune a tarot deck to the subject the seeker is requesting guidance on.

And then he concentrates really, really, _really_ hard on baseball statistics and wondering what’s for dinner and reciting the entire script of the Bee Movie in his head, because if he can fuck up the deck badly enough maybe, just _maybe,_ it will tell both of them absolutely nothing for the rest of the day. And then Steve won’t be able to read anything about Bucky’s crush, and Bucky won’t be able to read anything about Steve’s future wife, and then he’ll never have to deal with the fact that he _has_ a crush on Steve while Steve has a future wife, and then maybe the world will fuck off and let him die in peace. If he unthinks the future hard enough, maybe it will just _stop existing._ If it works for a deck of cards, who says it won’t work for his life?

Naturally, because the universe hates him and wants him to suffer, it doesn’t work on his life.

It doesn’t even work on the deck of _cards._

* * *

 “‘The romance spread is ideal for those seeking or entering a new relationship,’” Steve reads from the textbook, and Bucky kind of wants to take out his wand and set the textbook on fire and then also maybe set the entire school on fire, because he’s relatively certain it’s _mocking_ him and his inability to ever get a relationship ever again and he does _not_ appreciate getting called out like that. “‘The goal is to give you guidance by identifying the true nature of your current relationship or romantic concerns, even if it is unbeknownst to you, by indicating the mental states of you and your new or potential partner. In addition, three cards are dedicated to revealing the likeliest outcome of your combined current path. It is recommended you take these into consideration and prepare yourself as you move forward.’”

Dammit, textbook, Bucky _prepares._ It’s not his fault that he can’t seem to prepare for the _right thing;_ he doesn’t know who _else_ is to blame, exactly, but when he finds that person they can look forward to feeling the full force of his seventeen years of teenage drama. Yes, _seventeen years,_ that’s right, he’s feels like he’s been handling adolescent-level bullshit angst since he was _born,_ he’s allowed to be hyperbolic. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Quit stalling and flip my damn cards already—unless you want me to read for you and your _soulmate_ first?”

“No, no, save the best for last and all, right?” Steve waves a hand, poking at the seven cards Bucky’s chosen and rearranging six into some semblance of a circle. “Just gimme a sec to make sure this is right.”

 _Best_ is entirely subjective here, obviously, because the idea of reading Steve’s cards makes Bucky want to rip said cards in half, twenty-two years of continuous bad luck be damned because he’s already _lived through seventeen,_ and can only really be considered the _best_ way to drive Bucky criminally insane. Not that he says any of that, obviously, because for now he’s still pretending to be a semi-normal human being. Instead, he smiles. “Aw, shucks. Me, the best? Can I get that in writing?”

“Absolutely not.” Steve drops the remaining card right into the middle. “Alright, that should do it. Ready?”

What kind of a fucking question is that? There’s only ever one answer, and that’s that Bucky _thinks_ he’s ready, which obviously means the moment the first card flips a sinkhole will open up under the castle and suck them straight to the center of the Earth, because whenever he thinks he’s ready it’s always a sign that he’s actually not ready and what’s about to happen will redefine the word _disaster._ “Do it, Rogers. Take me to my future.”

“And how long did it take you to come up with _that_ one?” Steve rolls his eyes with a smile. “Alright. According to the book, the first card symbolizes ‘the querent’, which is just a fancy way of saying it represents your state of mind right now. And you’ve got...drumroll, please...”

Bucky taps his fingers against the table whilst simultaneously bracing himself for impending doom because knowing him, the card’s just going to say ‘JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES IS CURRENTLY PINING OVER YOU’ in bold letters with no further explanation.

And then Steve flips the card, and it turns out the universe, that _motherfucker,_ thinks it can be _funny._

“The Devil?” Steve’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline. “Your current mindset is the _Devil?”_

“HA.” And let it never be said Bucky Barnes doesn’t have a sense of humor, because yeah, if there’s one way to sum up how he feels right now it’s that he’s in _literal hell._ He almost wishes Tony were here to see it, because that’s certainly one way to prove divination is real, except if Tony were here _he’d_ be the Devil and Bucky would have to settle for the Hanged Man and that’d be a little too dark (and yeah, he knows that’s not what the cards mean, let him have this). “Yep, that’s me, the _Devil.”_

“Oh, no. My best friend has been possessed by Satan.” Steve’s voice is flat even as he flips back to the glossary and begins looking through tarot explanations. “Whatever shall I do. It’s not like he wasn’t a menace already or anything.”

“Hey, fuck you, I can be a perfect angel.”

“Oh, really? Do you say your prayers with that mouth? Or is this all _before_ you fell from heaven, Lucifer?” And, because Steve Rogers will be the death of him and it looks like Bucky’s immediate future holds at least one heart attack, he looks over with a blinding smile and a _wink._ “Did it hurt, by the way?”

“When I...oh, _fuck you.”_ Is that damn warm feeling coming back again? Over a _stupid line like that?_ Bucky has _seen_ Steve try to flirt, it’s like watching a newborn deer attempting to walk through a nuclear wasteland on stilettos, so _why the fuck is this happening to him?_ “You’re going to hell for that line, you know, so you better hurry up tell me what my card means or I will skin you mouth to anus and wear you like a jacket when you get there.”

“Calm down there, Satan,” and okay, Bucky kinda walked into that one. He glowers anyway, because he can _feel_ the stupid smile threatening to crawl onto his face and he is going to beat it into submission and destroy its children, damn it, he is _stronger_ than this. “‘The Devil is closely related to jealousy, anger, and self-delusion. It often signifies or foretells a situation from which there is no escape.’ Well, I guess that makes sense, given the unrequited feelings thing, that you’d feel trapped. Or something.”

“Yeah.” Or something. _Or something never helps._ And Steve seems to realize this, because he’s frowning down at the card like it personally offended his mother or something, and Bucky has to jump in at that because he’s pretty sure he’s required by law to stop Steve Rogers from looking like that for more than two seconds. “But hey, that’s what the rest of the cards are for, right? And look, at least I can’t get the Devil again, which means it’s not in my future.”

“...Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Steve perks up at that, so Bucky decides not to mention that knowing him and the way his life is going he wouldn’t be surprised if his tarot deck just turned out to be twenty-two Devil cards in a row, because that would be overly pessimistic of him and he’s _not_ a pessimist, just a realist with a very, _very_ shitty reality. “Let’s move on, then. ‘The second card is meant to give immediate insight on your partner—it usually acts as an indicator of what they bring to the relationship, where they see it going in the future, or the issues they’re currently facing with it.’ So for you, that’d be...the person you have feelings for?”

“Uh huh.” Bucky tries to look halfway between mildly interested and totally nonchalant, because he has _no earthly clue_ what expression properly conveys that he definitely cares oh-so-very much about the card and his romantic future but Steve certainly shouldn’t because it does not involve him. Judging by the expressions of mild concern he receives from Steve and Wanda and the telltale flash of a camera _(and really, how much of his shame must be documented for posterity)_ from Pietro, it doesn’t work. “And it’s…?”

“The Sun.” Steve grimaces in what might be a tight smile, his eyebrows pinched and gaze downcast. Wanda’s concerned gaze slides straight from Bucky to Steve, and Pietro takes another picture. It’s only then that Bucky notices that neither have even bothered opening their deck of tarot cards, which kinda makes him reevaluate his life because he hasn’t become _that_ much of a daytime soap opera heroine, has he? Is it the hair? Is it the overly dramatic internal monologuing? Bucky makes a mental note to stop conditioning, because he’s not giving up his internal stream of consciousness when it’s the only thing that stands between him and the slow moving heat death of the universe. “Well, the Sun’s almost universally a positive symbol, so maybe this person sees your relationship going in a good direction.”

Or maybe Steve Rogers is just a bright fucking beacon of positivity and radiance who’d shower any romantic partner in rainbows and starshine and dammit, the cards are fucking _mocking him again._ “Or maybe they’re just a giant ball of hot air.” And, because it’s never enough, he taps his chin. “Or maybe they’re just smokin’ hot, period. Or, or. Maybe they’re _literally on fire.”_

“I will turn this car around.” Steve gives him a halfhearted glare and flicks one of the leftover tarot cards at him for emphasis; Justice hits him in the forehead and stings like a motherfucker, because justice is a social construct that doesn’t apply in a magical world where Bucky suffers whether he deserves it or not. “I’m trying to give you a _good_ reading here.”

“You know what would make this reading better?” If it were fucking _over,_ obviously, or alternatively if he got forty pounds of chocolate and a jumbo bottle of firewhiskey at the end in compensation, or _alternatively_ if it were fucking over so that he _could_ retreat to the safety of his room to drown himself in the forty pounds of chocolate and jumbo bottle of firewhiskey he has stashed conveniently under his pillow with no one to judge him, but he’s pretty sure if he says any of that Steve will confiscate his alcohol, and he has _plans_ for that alcohol, dammit, so he says nothing. “If you’d _pick up the pace a little._ I’m not getting any younger, you know. Gotta lock down that soulmate or whatever.”

“Soulmates _do_ exist, dammit, my hand _says so.”_ Steve glares at him over the table, although his lips are twitching upwards. “I don’t remember you being this bossy.”

”One of us has to be, it’s just that it’s usually you.” There’s a net insanity that their entire social group shares, actually, cultivated and passed along via some sort of weird osmosis that’s been developed because of the sheer amount of time they spend together that ensures their lives can’t stay stable for more than a month at a time before they get sucked into some giant catastrophic event that holds the fate of the wizarding world in the balance. They’ve heard professors claim that it’s the most eventful consecutive seven years at Hogwarts since Harry Potter. Clearly, Bucky needs new friends. “Now c’mon, gimme card three.”

“You’d better give me a better reading than this.” Bucky snorts at that, because it’d be pretty hard for him to give Steve a _worse_ reading, and then immediately feels shame, because that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna try anyway, because he doesn’t want to have to deal with the complicated storm of emotions he gets whenever he thinks about Steve and his soulmate. “Alright, so card three represents the present and what’s happening from your perspective, to give you better insight on your own outlook, and so on and so forth. And you have The Star...oh, but it’s upside down.”

“Reversed. The word is _reversed.”_

“Apologies, Professor Barnes—The Star _reversed._ Hang on a sec, I’m gonna need the textbook for this one...”

“Or you could ask me. I know the answer.”

“I’m sorry, do you _want_ me to keep calling you ‘professor?’ Because _I_ don’t mind, but Tony and Clint will, and then you’ll _never_ hear the end of it.”

“If you tell them, I’m deducting a thousand points from Gryffindor.” Jesus, at this point he’s going to die of _exasperation_ before he even gets around to dying of shame. Bucky considers it as he props his feet up on a stray stool, weighing the pros and cons of both, and comes to the conclusion that he’d still rather just die of gravity by swandiving out the nearest window. Sadly, Winifred Barnes raised him too well, so he stays on the stool and settles for picturing it vividly instead. “Alright, let’s hear what the book has to say then.”

“Is that all I am to you, an audiobook?”

“You're _literally just reading the book word for word.”_

“I mean, sure, but do you have to rub it in?” Steve licks his fingers before purposefully flicking the pages of Bucky’s book, which is disgusting and sadly does not diminish his attraction to him. “‘When The Star is reversed, it indicates dejection, discouragement, and despair. The querent may find themselves frustrated or disappointed with their circumstances; they feel hopeless about their situation, and have lost faith in a positive outcome.’ Jesus, Buck, you should've _told_ me.” He's starting to look frustrated himself, the familiar look that means Steve Rogers is about to take a vested interest in your personal problems, which means Bucky has to defuse the situation fast before Steve starts threatening to chew people out—or, in this scenario, starts threatening to chew _himself_ out, which would be a funny thought, haha, if it didn’t go hand-in-hand with the very real and very terrible threat of extreme public humiliation and mockery and death and for the love of God, Bucky wills his mouth to say something, quick, before Steve starts getting _ideas._

“What, so I could watch you get worked up like this?” Yes, yes, that’s good. Playful banter and casual nonchalance is _good._ Bucky may be a walking human disaster, but at least he can bullshit his way halfway to normality around Steve. Christ, he’s lucky his crush is someone he’s got half a lifetime to get comfortable around, he's a disaster even now and he honestly can't imagine what he'd be like otherwise. “Honestly, Steve, don’t read too much into it. Sure, so I’m a little annoyed—what single person isn’t, every once in a while?” The ones who aren’t idiotic enough to get hung up on presumably straight childhood friends, probably. Bucky allows himself a mental moment of silence for the smarter, more well-adjusted person he could have been—may that _motherfucker_ , wherever he is, burn in hell for not giving Bucky a fucking hand and leaving to his shitty, shitty judgement calls.

“Maybe.” Steve doesn’t look convinced, because Bucky can count the number of times his best friend has backed down after the first talking-to on one hand with the hand cut off in a freak chainsaw accident, but he _does_ turn back to the tarot cards with a renewed steeliness to his eyes, because every now and then he listens to Bucky because Bucky is _right,_ dammit. “After your teacup, though...well. At least the next card is a look ahead at what’s on the horizon, so hopefully I’ll have some _good_ news for you for a change.”

Bucky has a pretty good idea about what’s in his immediate future—namely another twenty minutes of angst and denial, hopefully followed by a rerun of _Legally Blonde_ and enough sugar to give a horse Type II adult onset diabetes—but that sort of behavior probably implies feelings stronger than ‘a little annoyed’, so he decides against mentioning it to Steve. “Only one way to find out.”

“Here goes...” Steve flips the next of Bucky’s cards, then frowns. “Huh. Judgement? What does that mean in a _romance_ spread?”

Probably that the universe or fate or Wizard God or whatever is judging him for the choices he’s made about his love life, which he really can’t be surprised or offended or even bothered by, considering how much he judges himself about it. At least he’s self-aware. “Well, Judgement usually means there’s gonna be a period of transition or extreme change, but unlike Death or the Tower—”

“Hold on, hold on, I wanna figure this out myself.”

“Look, I love you and all, but you know nothing, Jon Snow, and if you keep quoting the book at me like that I’m gonna shove it up your left nostril binding-first. Unlike Death or the Tower, change from Judgement comes from a combo of intuition and rational thought instead of sudden upheaval—”

“Dunno why you hate the book so much, given you sound exactly like it.”

“Hey, screw you, I can’t help it if I’m an _intellectual_ with a grandiose vocabulary and splendiferous reserves of hitherto undisclosed knowledge.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll slug ya, see if I don’t.” Bucky’s tempted to backtalk him just to see if he does, because he knows he _won’t,_ but Steve finally finds his page and clears his throat dramatically so that’s the end of that. “‘The arrival of the Judgement card indicates that you are reaching a turning point in your journey. The querent may soon have a moment of epiphany or make a decision that dramatically changes the course of their future. Oftentimes, this can take the form of an unconscious truth within you being brought to light or a journey long in the making finally approaching conclusion. Regardless, the current chapter of your life will soon end and start you on a new path.’ Is that...good or bad?”

“That’s kinda the point of tarot cards, Steve. They’re vague.” Not that Bucky’s got any doubt, because this is _his_ life, which means his future can only spell out catastrophe on levels previously unimagined in the history of mankind. There’s something gnawing at the back of his mind, a sneaking suspicion that he _knows_ what’s going on and should shut down everything before his conscious mind gets with the program, realizes just how much worse life can actually get, and fucks off to the pits of despair or Tartarus or something. He slaps the feeling down semi-hysterically because it’s not like he _wouldn’t_ if he thought he weren’t _halfway there already._ “The next few cards look further into the future, though, right? Maybe they’ll clear things up.”

“Maybe? Card six is short-term outlook and card seven’s long-term, but card five...well.” He gestures at the cards on the table for emphasis—of the seven cards on the table, six are lying in a neat circle and card number five is lying smack dab in the center, the card of crowning importance. It doesn’t take a genius to get it, because the very fucking _layout_ of the reading screams it with bells and whistles and all the force of a thousand screaming banshees and Bucky’s own broken mind: of all the cards on the table, card number five is the one currently in the best position to fuck him over. Hard. In the ass. Without lubrication. Christ, he’s gonna die. Scratch that, he _wishes_ he could die. “‘Card five represents the heart of the matter, giving you insight on exactly what is going on in your love life; it is the most important card in the spread, looking past both you and your partner’s misconceptions to the objective truth or your relationship.’”

 _“Fantastic._ Does it also find me a monastery in Tibet where I can live out the rest of my days, or do I do that part myself?”

“Stop being a drama queen.” Silly Steve, doesn’t he know that that’s what Bucky does best? Doesn’t he know that it’s literally _all he ever does_ on the inside? “I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

“Yes, yes it can. It can _absolutely_ be that bad. You have _no idea.”_ Actually, he might. Bucky’s not sure how subtle he’s been so far, what with his fits of melodrama this entire class period, but if Steve _does_ know what’s going on he’s doing a good job of hiding it, which thank goodness because Bucky _likes_ his friendship and would rather not have to nuke it with a grenade launcher (or more realistically subject it to an honest talk about his _feelings_ or whatever, which is frankly _so_ much worse). “Whatever, let’s get this over with. Flip it.”

And, because Steve is still a secret asshole, he whistles the Jeopardy theme song with all the innocence of a fucking serial killer until Bucky kicks him in the shin. “I’m flipping it, I’m flipping it! It’s the Moon, see?”

“Took your sweet time with it.” The Moon. Of _course_ it’s the Moon. Really, Bucky should probably just be happy it isn’t the Tower or something that makes it equally obvious to Steve how his life is the physical manifestation of extreme and unexpected catastrophe. “Now, are you gonna make a smart decision for once in your life or are you gonna go with the book?”

“Just for that, I’m going with the book. At least the _book_ never sasses me.”

“But consider this: is the _book_ the one who has your third grade diary in his trunk?”

“The _book_ is gonna be my new best friend if you keep this up.” Steve gives him his usual look, the one that indicates he’s Very Disapproving of your Life Choices™, except Bucky basically _taught_ Steve that look back when Steve was still throwing himself in front of metaphorical busses, so he just rolls his eyes and waves him on. “And it says, by the way, that the Moon means something ‘isn’t as it seems.’” He turns the page and keeps reading aloud. “‘This could be a variety of things: it may be a misunderstanding on your part, a truth you can’t admit to yourself, or an indication that something important is being kept from you by another person. Regardless, the Moon is a card of illusion and deception.’” And, before Bucky can even _think_ to himself that they’re starting to tread into dangerous territory and that the author of _Unfogging the Future, Volume 5_ is about to see a very expensive therapy bill in her near future, Steve’s brow furrows as he frowns. “Something important being kept from _you_ …by another person...?”

And that’s about the time Bucky realizes that this is the closest a tarot card is going to get to telling Steve that hey, Bucky may or may not be hiding a pretty big secret from him, which means it’s about time Bucky ‘accidentally’ flip the table or set Trelawney on fire or murder Pietro at the other table (because _dammit, why is that asshole laughing)_ or something else that’ll cause everyone to evacuate the school in the ensuing fallout. Unfortunately for him, the part of his brain that actually controls bodily movement doesn’t seem to get the memo, because instead of doing literally _anything_ he just sits their limp-limbed, like staying perfectly still means Steve won’t see him or he’ll dissolve into the atmosphere or _something_. It takes him _way too long_ for his mouth to start making words, which is kinda bullshit because his mouth has been making words against his _will_ all day, the one time it could actually _help him out_ it pulls this shit. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Unrequited feelings? Deception? Makes sense.”

Steve shoots him a quick glance, but he’s still staring at the Moon card— _thinking,_ Bucky realizes with all the slow-dawning resignation of a man on death row, Steve _never_ thinks, why _now?!_ “You’re taking this awfully well.”

Actually, Bucky is taking this about as well as a heart attack (or debatably _better,_ he thinks he’d welcome the heart attack right about now), but that feels like the sort of thing that might tip Steve off even _more,_ so he shrugs nonchalantly instead and crosses his arms to hide the fact that he’s flipping both Wanda _and_ Pietro off in the crook of his elbow as they both snort rather unsubtly. Fucking legilimens, honestly. “Eh, I’ve had time to adjust, is all.”

“Time?” Steve eyebrows are going higher and higher on his face, and _fuck,_ Bucky is not ready for this moment. He has been _dreading it,_ that’s not the same thing as being _ready for it._ The one thing he _tries to prepare for_ that actually _happens_ and it turns out he’s _not fucking prepared._ “You’ve felt like this for a while, then? Someone you’ve known pretty long?”

Fuck. Fuck. There is no way to answer this question. There is no _good_ way to answer this question except quickly and nonchalantly and both of those are already out the window, _faster,_ dammit, _say something._ Say the _right thing._ There _is no right thing to say,_ because there is _no way to answer this question._ Words are starting to lose their meaning the more he repeats them internally, which is a bad time for words to lose their meaning because he needs them now more than over. “Yeah, I guess.” And, because Bucky’s vocal chords can go _right_ to hell, they don’t stop. “Something up, Steve?”

“...Y’know, I’m not sure.” Bucky feels himself relax minutely against his will, which is _bad,_ because the moment he lets his guard down is when they get you and Steve is looking between the card and Bucky critically like he thinks he might have _something,_ alright, and Bucky has to wonder somewhere far, far away if after literal _years_ of waiting for the other shoe to drop that _this_ is how it happens, on a Wednesday afternoon because of his _stupidest professor._ He didn’t _have to take this class, dammit._ “But the card kinda makes it sound like the ‘other person’ here is hiding something from _you,_ so it might—maybe—be someone who returns your feelings?”

Wanda and Pietro simultaneously cough into their sleeves.

Which Bucky doesn’t _need,_ thank you, because he _gets_ it—the fact that Steve is _this_ blissfully unaware of the fact that he is, in fact, the person he’s talking about is _funny_ because schadenfreude, hardy har har, let’s all laugh at Bucky and the increasingly improbable clusterfuck that is his life and all the choices he’s made to get here. Frankly, he can’t even mentally cuss them out over the sudden wave of _relief,_ because the fact that Steve has _not_ caught on that he is, in fact, umbrella-feeling-unrequited-bullshit is a miracle of nature but he will take it, thank you, and run with it for as long as possible. “Maybe, maybe not.” _Definitely_ not. He debates saying so out loud, but decides quickly against pushing his luck, because the goddamn universe so _rarely_ bestows any upon him, and decides it’s probably best to move the subject along before anyone (read: the asshole with silver hair at the next table) decides to do _anything._ “Well, that’s what the next two cards are for, right? Short and long term future.” Now that he thinks about it, the less time they spend on the rest of his reading, the better, because Bucky has, y’know, a _vague_ idea of what his future might hold anyway and the less time Steve spends pondering Bucky and his not-so-mysterious crush, the less time Bucky spends flirting with disaster. And as much as disaster is the only long-term relationship he’s had for the past several years, he’d rather spend as little time with it as possible, because it is abusive as they come and a _right bitch_ to boot. “Actually, let’s flip ‘em at the same time. I’m ready for it.” Well, if _that_ isn’t a total lie. Then again, who’s _really_ ready for their future? _That_ level of security is reserved purely for fictional characters and people with _maturity._ Fuck that. Fuck them.

“Yeah? Alright.” Steve’s expression is beginning to smooth out slowly, which thank _fuck_ for that; the universe can keep giving him near misses, as far as he’s concerned, as long as they _keep missing_ like this, because his best friend grabs the last cards almost eagerly before pausing to give him an unreadable look. Bucky watches Steve move his jaw slowly, as if trying to figure out the right thing to say. “Y’know, I really, _really_ hope it says something good.”

Honestly, it takes a good deal of what remains of Bucky’s willpower not to _laugh hysterically,_ because _fat fucking chance._ “You and me both. Well?”

And then. All the cards are on the table (figuratively _and_ literally, haha, Bucky thinks he’s _clever)._

And then. Bucky feels his spirit _leave his body._

“I don’t need the book for this,” Steve says eagerly from across the table, where the grass is greener and ignorance is bliss and _everything is fine,_ and if Steve doesn’t need a book _Bucky_ sure as hell doesn’t need a book either, because the fire alarms that have been going off in his head since Steve flipped ‘Judgement’ finally figure out how to work the PA system and start screaming at his brain like the world is ending (which it is, would you look at that, _amazing)._ “The World in your short term—a long journey coming to an end, complete with closure. And The Fool in your long term—a new beginning afterwards with open-ended possibilities.”

It’s a little more nuanced than that, Bucky wants to say, but it’s kind of hard to say _anything_ over the revelation that, y’know, Steve’s about to find his soulmate and _it’s the end of his fucking life as he knows it._

Because if he pretends to be a rational person for a second and then _thinks about it like a rational person for a second,_ it makes sense. A sudden life-changing event as outlined in Judgement—say, I don’t know, Steve finding his soulmate ( _soulmates aren’t supposed to exist, for crying out loud_ ) and entering into a relationship with them and riding off into his stupid marriage line sunset or whatever—followed immediately by the _end_ of a journey? What’s _that_ supposed to mean, other than the end of Steve and Bucky’s friendship as it is now? It’s not like Bucky can _blame_ Steve’s would-be soulmate for taking his place as the strongest relationship in Steve’s life, that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do and should _not_ be making Bucky feel this irrationally frustrated, he’s had _time to prepare for this._ He’s had _too many damn years to prepare for this._ Really, _why does he even bother trying to prepare for things?_

And _closure._ _Ha fucking ha._ Seeing Steve find his _literal soulmate_ and knowing that there’s not a snowball’s chance in Satan’s asscrack that he’ll ever have feelings for anyone again. That’s definitely _one way of getting closure, alright._

And with The Fool as the ultimate fallout, a notoriously reckless and and idiotically hopeful _asshat_ with equal potential for success as well as _full-frontal failure—_ well. Bucky had expected to get over Steve once, back in sixth year, when he was young and dumb and thought he could process feelings like an _adult._ He’s got low hopes for round two.

I mean, the fucking _Fool,_ for Christ’s sake. That’s his _destiny._ The universe just keeps _mocking him._

“What do you think it means?” He can hear his vocal chords saying words, because apparently they’ve just decided to operate entirely independent from his body today, which for once _thank God_ because if he’s going to maintain _some_ semblance of normalcy he needs to at least _act_ like he still, y’know, believes he maybe has a bright future or something.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” mutters Pietro from behind him, and spot on, Pietro. “How can he _still think—_ ”

“ _Shut up,_ ” hisses Wanda. “I will _kill you.”_ And really, spot on, Wanda.

“It looks good, is what I think.” From the way Steve’s acting, he thinks it’s _more_ than good—he’s rocking a little in his seat, smile nearly splitting his face, gazing at Bucky with such unfiltered glee that he might as well have just interpreted a bright romantic future for _himself_ instead of for Bucky (which is, ironically enough, _true,_ not that he knows it, the universe just _needs to get its kicks in today, lucky bastard_ ). “It looks _really_ good.” He bites his lip, scratching the back of his neck and ducking to meet Bucky’s eyes sheepishly under his eyelashes, and Christ on a fucking cracker can this not happen now Bucky needs _time to process._ “I think I might know something else about it, too, but...well, why don’t we do my reading first? I just wanna make sure real quick.”

And, because if there’s one thing Bucky can maybe kinda do it’s go on pretending his life is okay even though it just got fucking _assaulted_ by seven motherfucking cards on a table and a bullshit textbook, he begins collecting the spread and shuffling them into the deck. “Yeah, okay.” With the state his mind is in, it takes him a few minutes to process the words he’s hearing, construct an answer, make sure the answer isn’t _bullshit,_ and beat his vocal chords into submission. “Wait, what does _your_ reading have to do with _my_ fortune?”

“Huh? Oh...” Steve shakes his head as if shaking himself out of his own thoughts, which makes Bucky have to hold up for a second because what’s _Steve_ so caught up by? And then he remembers that right, it’s because he’s probably about to give Steve his _soulmate_ reading. And then he has to yell at himself internally to please, stop sounding five years old _in his own damn head,_ he is a grown ass man, he can deal with things like—well, maybe not an adult, but like he’s a human being who’s _capable_ of dealing with things as opposed to a trash possum on steroids. “Well, maybe I just need a little time to think it through.” And then Steve smiles tentatively, sheepish but also _knowing,_ which _fucking Christ, why, what is Bucky supposed to know, he already knows too much and all of it is about his future and all of it is bullshit._ “Or something.”

“Or something.” _Or something never fucking helps._

“Yeah, exactly—’or something.’” And then Steve fucking Rogers _reaches over,_ putting one hand on Bucky’s to stop him and his frantic half-panicked shuffling as he takes the deck of cards out of his hands. Bucky finally gets a good look at him, the first good look since his brain decided to officially retire, and has to blink a few times to make sure he sees it properly—because Steve is staring him _right in the fucking eyeballs,_ smiling like they share an unspoken secret, like the sun’s shining out of his ass because he’s _so fucking happy for Bucky and his bright romantic future that does not exist._ “Ease up a little, Buck. I’m pretty sure we both know what my cards are gonna say, now.”

The teacup and the palmistry and the _fucking soulmates._ Of course they do. They both know what it’s gonna say.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles back, because what else is he supposed to do when Steve looks at him like that? He feels a brief twinge of guilt, that he can’t be as happy for Steve as Steve obviously is for him. “Yeah. Cut the damn deck already, Rogers. I’m gonna give you a little look into your future.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says, sitting back and laughing all excited and breathless and _happy_ or whatever, and Bucky can’t quite bring himself to kill the small, fucking _stupid_ smile before it crawls onto his face as he spreads the cards out on the table.

* * *

Life is stupid, Bucky thinks to himself as he flips all seven of Steve’s cards over in the same spread as his own and nudges card five further into the center. Life is stupid, and shitty, and _predictable,_ which is really what makes it so stupid, because even though it’s _predictable_ it still somehow manages to be fucking _bullshit._ Life can go right to hell in a goddamn handbasket, Bucky thinks vindictively, and then realizes that’s dumb and he got played because that _is_ where all life goes, in the end. To hell. Especially him. He probably deserves it, given how much he cusses out life and tells it to go to hell. Now that he thinks of it, maybe that’s why nothing ever works out for him.

This _fucking_ reading included.

“Card number one: your own mental state.” Steve leans in eagerly as Bucky jabs his finger down decisively, smile frozen giddy on his face. It’s the sort of bright positivity that Bucky usually enjoys seeing most in Steve, where it shines out of his pores like the fucking sun and warms Bucky’s dead, frozen heart, except today it just makes him feel a vague burning sensation somewhere where his soul should be. Geez, what’s gotten into him? (Existential dread, obviously. Rhetorical question.) “The card you’ve got here is the Fool.” Of course, right after Bucky gets it. For the love of _fucking God,_ does the universe enjoy rubbing things in. “As you know, the Fool is the symbol of new beginnings; he’s depicted here on the card at the start of a life-changing journey, optimistic and open to the unlimited possibilities that could happen. The card is usually tied with potential and innocence—don’t give me those eyes, I said _usually—_ and can also indicate that the seeker is about to make an important decision. Any of this sounding relevant to you?”

From the way Steve is acting, smiling like the Fool (why yes, Bucky thinks he’s clever) and vibrating in place like he’s physically restraining himself from combusting, it’s not hard to predict the answer. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, the appearance of the Fool also generally indicates that your leap of faith will be rewarded, so take a chance and see what happens.” And, because he _can’t believe he has to add this,_ “no literal leaping from great heights, by the way.”

“Now, what on Earth gave you that idea?”

Bucky can think of two distinct separate occasions where Steve leapt from broomsticks in midair, once to catch the snitch during his very first game of quidditch and once to go after _Bucky_ during that entire debacle third year _,_ but he mentions neither because he doesn’t need to go giving Steve ideas, he gets plenty of those on his own. “I dunno, why would any sane person with a functioning sense of self-preservation do a fool thing like that? You _are_ one of those, arentcha?”

“‘Course I am, you know that.” Steve smiles at Bucky again, still _giddy._ Bucky’s not sure he’s gonna be able to survive much more of it, frankly, not when his own mental wavelength is something along the lines of _kill me now, quick and painless, I walk alone._ “Next one, that’s the other person, right?”

“Yep. And for you, that person’s the High Priestess.” As if the universe needed to place _any more emphasis_ on how unattainable and, y’know, _straight_ Steve Rogers is. He _gets_ it. The world can stop _hitting him over the head with a titanium baseball bat about it._ “It’s reversed here, but even then, a straightforward interpretation could point to a strong feminine force.” And against his will and the one remaining brain cell he has left, he thinks it: _someone like Peggy._

“Uh, okay.” Steve tilts his head curiously, raising an eyebrow as he looks at the card. Behind him, Bucky can hear Pietro’s laugh right before he makes a sounds like, say, a man getting punched by his twin sister and tapers off into a wheeze. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, of course I’ve got more, I’m not the _textbook.”_ He’s got _pride—_ well, not exactly, not anymore. He’s got _standards._ They’re just low, but not as low as the stupid textbook. “More generally speaking, the Priestess is the card of the subconsciousness and mystery. Reversed like this, it probably means the subject is ignoring their intuition, or not picking up on what their inner voice is trying to say. It could also mean that they’re ignoring something that they should already know is true, or that there are secrets still being kept from them.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Say, your feelings for them? The ones in the teacup, I’m guessing?”

Steve hasn’t _stopped_ smiling since Bucky’s reading, which just goes to show how good and sympathetic and enthusiastic for other people Steve is or whatever, but he does smile _wider,_ and god _damn_ does Bucky need a break from this classroom. “I guess I should bring it up properly, huh.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky shuffles the remaining fifteen cards between his fingers, because he needs _something_ to do to move his fingers while the universe actively implodes around him, just so he can make sure he’s still here and not just watching a hyperrealistic YouTube parody of his own existence. “Never good to keep the lady waiting.”

And for some reason that makes Steve, Pietro, _and_ Wanda all burst into peals of laughter at the same time, although the twins do a better job of hiding it subtly enough that Bucky’s relatively certain he and Steve aren’t supposed to notice. Because it’s not enough that the _world itself_ is mocking him anymore, now his friends gotta get into it; Bucky busies himself with making as many obscene hand gestures behind his back at the twins as possible, channeling all his latent feelings and frustration with so much forcefulness that he nearly misses when Steve straightens and replies. “I’ll do it first thing when class ends.”

Wait. What now?

He repeats it out loud, because _wait._ “What now?” And then he has to swallow and repeat it _again,_ because shit, why is shit hitting the fan _this soon,_ what the hell brought this on? “You’re gonna...as soon as _class_ ends?”

“Well, yeah.” Steve gives him a _look,_ like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and gestures at the card, which yeah, okay, pretty damn obvious things. “Now that I know, I think it’s probably about time, don’t you?”

Well fuck, why’s he asking _Bucky,_ does Bucky look like the man who has his shit together and can make reasonable life decisions about honesty like that? He’s liked Steve for more than a _thousand days_ and has not spent a single minute of any one of them telling Steve anything about _his_ feelings, there is _nothing_ that qualifies him to decide the right time to tell people feelings when he’s already preemptively decided that the right time is _haha fuck you never._ “Well, if it works for you.” And before he can think any more, about the fact that Steve’s gonna _skip his last fucking class of the day_ to go send Peggy an owl or Floo her or something because of the _divination reading Bucky gave him,_ he plows right onwards. “That explains your third card, at least.”

“That’s the one that symbolizes your present conditions, right?” Steve squints, turning his head halfway as he tries to read the label upside down. “The _Hanged Man?”_

Card one symbolizes ‘the mental state of the querent’ and card two symbolizes ‘the mental state of the partner of the querent’, so Bucky refrains himself from very obviously and sarcastically double-checking the textbook just to make sure card number three isn’t supposed to symbolize ‘the mental state of the best friend of the querent’ because golly gee, does he feel like all the blood is rushing to his head and also possibly leaking out his eye sockets and also that the blood leaking out his eye sockets is actually his will to live or his limited patience with the fuckery he puts up with. “It’s not as bad as it looks, honestly. The Hanged Man usually means that you’re in a situation where you feel trapped or stuck, and that to move forward you should consider new possibilities and perspectives. That’s why he’s hanging upside down, see?”

“Oh, right.” Steve nods to himself. “The Hanged Man’s _not_ as bad as it seems; the _Tower’s_ the one that’s _worse._ You’ve told me that before.”

“Exactly. The Hanged Man smiles on his card, which means it’s a _willing_ suspension. It could mean you need to stop and think about the decision you’re about to make more carefully, because it’s something you can’t come back from. The Hanged Man is a symbol of martyrdom and sacrifice, you know. When it appears instead of other decision cards, like the Lovers, it usually means you’re gonna have to give up something you have to gain something greater that you want.”

“Oh.” His best friend stops jittering in place, eyes darkening a little as he stares down at the card, and Bucky feels guilt well up in him again, which _why,_ he’s just _interpreting the card,_ that is literally his _only job_ and he shouldn't feel sorry for doing it _too well._ “Is that...y’know, what _you_ think? That I shouldn’t risk what I have?”

“No.” And it says something, he thinks, the fact that he doesn’t have to _think_ about the answer, because for all he feels miserable he’d rather just him feel miserable than _both_ of them feel miserable. “That’s not what my gut’s saying, anyway.” Not to say that it doesn’t mean he thinks, every once in a while, that his gut should shut the fuck up and let him remain in _ignorant fucking bliss._ Sadly, both he and his gut are too opinionated to let it go. He takes a second to listen a little more closely, trying to discern what his instinct is telling him. Christ, his gut is his version of Trelawney’s ‘Inner Eye’, isn’t it? “I think...when you _chose_ the card, maybe, you were wondering whether to do something you couldn’t take back. But you made the decision when you saw the High Priestess, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods vigorously, leaning closer in as he scoots his chair closer to the table and meeting his gaze again and _geez,_ Bucky gets it, Steve’s excited, could he _please stop making all this emphatic eye contact or whatever._ “And honestly, I don’t think I can wait anymore. I shoulda done this a _while_ ago.”

“Well, I can’t argue with _that_ feeling.” Would you look at that, he’s lying again, because in Bucky’s own personal experience he’s buried his emotions _so fucking deep in the ground,_ of course, and thank the _Lord_ he never brought ‘em up now that he knows Steve’s got a soulmate (really, Bucky’s not bitter, but c’mon, a _soulmate)._ Really, he’s _not_ the person to ask here. “As long as you know you’re doing the right thing here, I think this card can probably be considered a part of your recent past—which leads us to card four, your upcoming future.”

“The World.” Steve’s smile is so bright, it’s like staring into the sun. “The satisfying conclusion to a long road.”

“Pretty much the ideal card to see, given your circumstances.” And really, Bucky doesn’t want to get into it, it’s bad enough that he _knows_ and he’d rather not have to put it into words and acknowledge the reality of the situation or whatever, but he owes it to Steve to give him a positive reading. “The World indicates positive change, a chance to bring about a satisfying end to the old and look toward what’s next. It indicates security, certainty, fulfillment, reward—the central figure of the card celebrates the completion of your journey and the promise of a new beginning. It means everything’s finally coming together.” He closes his eyes, swallows, and rips the next words out forcefully from where they’re lodged in his throat courtesy of his Inner Eye. Man, _fuck_ the Inner Eye. Fuck _everything._ Bucky _really_ shouldn’t have taken divination, not when it ended up putting him _here,_ across from Steve with _this_ knowledge of the future. “In this context, I’d say it means...that the hope you’ve been holding onto will lead to the change you seek, bringing you the attention of the person you’ve been hoping for.”

For a single, blessed second, there’s _nothing—_ Steve stays totally silent, nothing moves in the darkness behind his eyelids, Wanda and Pietro actually shut the fuck up. If it weren’t for the quiet murmuring of his other classmates and the strong smell of rose and sandalwood, this could _almost_ be peaceful. If Bucky doesn’t _open his fucking eyes,_ maybe reality just _stops existing._

“...So it's for sure.” Well, so much for _that_ idea. Bucky reluctantly peers through his eyelids; Steve is staring at him, swallowing nervously, hand stretched halfway out across the table. “The person I’ve been _hoping_ for.” He makes an aborted gesture—and then, right in front of Bucky’s eyes, Jesus Christ, the _smile_ that grows on Steve’s face as he looks at him. It’s like watching the sun fucking _rise,_ it _burns_ him. “Not just my soulmate or the person I’m meant to end up with or whatever. The one I’ve been _hoping_ for. You're certain _.”_

And for a single second, there’s a tiny voice that tells Bucky to _lie his ass off,_ he does it _all the time_ to Steve about his stupid umbrella feelings anyway and it’s not like it’ll _change_ anything about the eventual outcome, it’ll make a _single divination reading_ _ambiguous at worst,_ why put himself through this when he can cling stubbornly onto his quasi-denial, this is not his ship and he’s not obligated to go down on it or anything, so _why._

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do that shit. Not to anyone, and definitely not to Steve.

“Yeah,” he says softly, breaking bad news to himself. It still hits him with the force of a sledgehammer, enough that he has to stop and recollect himself before he says it again. “As certain as I can be, anyway.”

From somewhere behind him, he hears a high wheeze. Steve sits up a little straighter, closing his eyes himself and taking a deep breath before opening them again, meeting his gaze. He looks steadier, somehow, than Bucky’s ever seen him—there’s a quiet certainty, some new unerring faith he didn’t have before that makes Bucky want to _scream._ “Bucky, we—”

“Sadly, our time together today is coming to an end.” Oh, holy motherfucking _shitballs,_ is that Trelawney, coming in _at the literal last second?_ Bucky takes back every bad thing he’s ever said about her. Bucky promises he will never say a _single bad thing about her again—_ he’ll think them, maybe, but holy shit, holy _shit,_ fuck the universe for making this his life but _God bless the universe for not making him sit through this._ “A few of you will have trouble making it to your next classes on time, so please, don’t concern yourselves with cleaning up. I do hope the last hour was illuminating, and shall look forward to seeing all of you again in the near future.”

Or maybe not, he thinks as he jumps out of his chair _so fucking fast,_ he’s dropping this class immediately, no questions asked, he can pass the divination N.E.W.T. without it and if he has to see a pack of tarot cards in his life ever again he's going to have _flashbacks to the war._ Bucky snatches his textbook out from under Steve’s hand, fat load of good it did him, he wishes he’d just read from the book, as he slings his bag over his shoulder without even bothering to pack it up properly. “I gotta go.”

“Hey, hang on a sec, I wanna—”

“You heard her, Steve. She’s not _always_ wrong.” Bucky does a quick calculation: three feet from the trapdoor with a few desks in the way and a few _dumbass_ students who clearly don’t realize that if they don’t hurry the fuck up, he is not above blasting them _all_ out of the way. He should be out of this hellhole in T-minus _yesterday._ “Defense is on the other side of the school. I gotta get a move on, otherwise Sam’ll chew me out.”

“C’mon, can’t I just _talk_ to you for a minute?” Steve stumbles upward, tripping over his own stool and cursing; Bucky goes to make a run for it while he's distracted and ends up smacking right into Pietro, who’s planted himself in front of him with his arms crossed. Does the kid not have any self-preservation instinct? Does he not _see_ Bucky’s murder eyes? Fuck, he does not have _time_ for this right now. “We didn’t even get to finish the reading—”

The reading? Christ, the fucking _reading,_ is _that_ what this is about?! The weird lump in his throat swells as he spins on his heel, a brief wave of frustration and anger sweeping over him as he jabs his finger at the table. Something in his expression must get to Steve, because he stops from where he’s attempting to extract himself from the tablecloth with a frozen expression of shock. Distant guilt wells up in Bucky, somewhere under all the _angst and suffering._ “Card five. The Moon, same as me. Illusion, deception. Unsurprising, if she still doesn’t know how you feel, but that’s obviously about to change, so.”

Steve blinks. “Wait, did you just say—”

He is _not_ gonna sit here and listen to this, god damn it, not now, can he not get _five seconds_ to himself to process his shit? “Card six. The Star. Hope. Renewal. Peace.” The thought pops into his head, bleeding into the frustration that creeps into his voice, because _fucking soulmates. “Destiny,_ for Christ’s sake. And card seven, The Sun. Warmth, joy, success.” He spins back around right as Wanda yanks Pietro out of the way, God _bless_ that woman, clearing a path straight to the door. He realizes with horror that it’s a little blurry, because he’s this close to crying, because he’s a _mess,_ are you _kidding_ me? He’s _seventeen._ He’s _better_ than this, god damn it, he should be _better_ than this. “Tell Peggy I say hi, yeah? Look, I’m sorry, Steve, but I really gotta run here. Let me know how it goes at dinner.”

“Buck, if you would just _listen—”_

As much as he would _really love to,_ Bucky thinks, and as much as he really does hate leaving things on this note with Steve, he really _does_ need a moment to himself, so he waves a hand and offers what he hopes is an apologetic smile as he makes for the trapdoor like the _devil’s_ on his heels. He debates the time it’ll take him to climb down the ladder—except he doesn’t have time to debate it, not with Steve rising halfway from his desk, fuck it, he’s jumping it. “Later.”

He doesn’t cry, thank the fucking _Lord._ But it takes him until halfway down the stairs to the ground floor before he’s sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do not think i know literally anything about tessomancy or palmistry or tarot reading, i am one (1) human with the internet and a lot of time on my hands
> 
> the inspiration for this chapter (and honestly for this entire thing) came from a fic about my old otp doing a divination reading together. i don't remember the title or author, but if anyone remembers a hetalia fic like this - except without tarot, i think? - lmk and i'll credit it.
> 
> (spot the brooklyn nine-nine reference)
> 
> there was supposed to be a final scene where pietro and wanda chase bucky down after he flees the divination classroom and pietro tells him he's a coward while wanda just stares in slack-jawed silence and wonders how one man can fit this much denial in one body, but it didn't fit so i nixed it.
> 
> this is quite literally just fifty pages of steve and bucky sitting at a table saying words, so i'm sorry if it's...boring, i guess? idk, i'm not sure how this chapter turned out, so any comments would be greatly appreciated just so i know how it comes across. kudos are, of course, also always welcome
> 
> next chapter: sam wilson is 10000% done with bucky's bullshit, bucky casts a patronus, and stan lee is the dada professor


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